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"  Jl'Drril."— From  Di-.awino  hy  E.  A.  AiiiiicY. 


JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE 


§ex  tovc  Affairs  nnb  ©tljer  ^btjentnres 


BY 


WILLIAM  BLACK 

AUTHOR  OF  "  A  PRINCESS  OF  THULE  "   "  STRANGE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  PHAETON 
"that   BEAUTIFUL   WRETCH"    "  SUNRISE "   ETC.,  ETC. 


)) 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  E.  A.  ABBEY 


,    ' '  .  »     •  > 


NEW   YORK 
HARPER   &   BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN   SQUARE 


WILLIAM  BLACK'S  NOVELS. 


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Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

J6®="  Any  of  the  above  works  will  be  sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any 
2>art  of  the  United  States,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 

. ^^^ .  fc  ii — • • — »»»■*>     • — 


'■■•■    ••^•••2-3-S-2 


Copyright,  1884,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


CONTENTS. 


OUAPTKE  PAGR 

I.    AN  ASSIGNATION 1 

n.    SIGNIOR  CRAB-APPLE 16 

m.    THE  PLANTING  OF  THE   CHARM 23 

rV.    A  PAGEANT 33 

V.    IN  A  WOODED  LANE 37 

VI.   WITHIN-DOORS 47 

Vn.    A  FAREWELL 60 

Vni.    A  QUARREL 68 

IX.   THROUGH  THE  MEADOWS 81 

X.    A  PLAY-HOUSE 95 

XI.    A  REMONSTRANCE i06 

Xn.    DIVIDED  WAYS 117 

Xm.    A  HERALD  MERCURY 128 

XrV.    A  TIRE- WOMAN 145 

XV.    A  FIRST  PERFORMiVNCE 153 

XVI.    BY  THE  RIVER 165 

XVII.    WILD  WORDS 182 

XA^III.    A  CONJECTURE 190 

XIX.   A  DAUGHTER  OP  ENGLAND 205 

XX.   VARYING  MOODS 213 

XXI.    A  DISCOVERY 228 

XXII.    PORTENTS 242 

XXm.    A  LETTER 251 

XXIV.    A  VISITOR :  .    260 

XXV.    AN  APPEAL 271 

XXVI.    TO   LONDON   TOWN 282 

XXVn.    EVIL  TIDINGS 288 

XXVIII.    RENEWALS 298 

XXIX.    "THE  ROSE  IS  FROM  MY  GARDEN  GONE" 307 

XXX.    IN  TIME  OF  NEED 318 

XXXI.    A  LOST  ARCADIA 330 

XXXII.    A   RESOLVE 342 

XXXIII.  ARRIVALS 354 

XXXIV.  AN   AWAKENING 362 

XXXV.    TOWARD  THE   I/IGHT 373 

XXXVI.    "  WESTERN   WIND,  WHEN  WILL   YOU   BLOW?" 385 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

*'  jitdith" Frontispiece. 

"  GOD  SAVE  YOU,  SWEET  LADY" 5 

"there,  now,  is  my  sweetheart  of  sweethearts" 13 

the  bible  reading 57 

"  'HERE  BE  finery!'  SAID   SHE" 69 

THERE   WAS  AN   ANXIOUS  AND   PITYING   APPEAL    IN   THE    LOVING 

EYES 87 

HE    SI'OKE   WITH    AN    AIR   OF   COOL   AUTHORITY,  WHICH    SHE    RE- 
SENTED      109 

THEN  HE  BOWED  LOW  AGAIN,  AND  WITHDREW 139 

HE  OPENED  THE  BOOK,  AND   SHE   SAW  THAT  THERE  WERE   SOME 

LINES  PENCILLED  ON  THE  GRAY  BINDING 175 

AND  NOW  SHE  BEGAN  READING 233 

AN  UNWELCOME  VISITOR 261 

"  'AND  HER  THANKS  TO  WHOM?'  SAID  PRUDENCE,  SMILING" 379 


JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE: 

HER  LOVE  AFFAIRS  AND  OTHER  ADVENTURES. 


CHAPTER  I. 

AN    ASSIGNATION. 


It  was  a  fair,  clear,  and  shining  morning,  in  the  sweet  May- 
time  of  the  year,  when  a  young  English  damsel  went  forth 
from  the  town  of  Stratford-upon-Avon  to  walk  in  the  fields. 
As  she  passed  along  by  the  Guild  Chapel  and  the  Grammar 
School,  this  one  and  the  other  that  met  her  gave  her  a  kindly 
greeting;  for  nearly  every  one  knew  her,  and  she  was  a  favor- 
ite; and  she  returned  those  salutations  with  a  frankness  which 
betokened  rather  the  self-possession  of  a  young  woman  than 
the  timidity  of  a  girl.  Indeed,  she  was  no  longer  in  the  first 
sensitive  dawn  of  maidenhood— having,  in  fact,  but  recently 
passed  her  five-and-twentieth  birthday— but  nevertheless  there 
Itevas  the  radiance  of  youth  in  the  rose-leaf  tint  of  her  cheeks, 
and  in  the  bright  cheerfulness  of  her  eyes.  Those  eyes  were 
large,  clear,  and  gray,  with  dark  pupils  and  dark  lashes;  and 
these  are  a  dangerous  kind;  for  they  can  look  demure,  and  art- 
less, and  innocent,  when  there  is  nothing  in  the  mind  of  the 
owner  of  them  but  a  secret  mirth;  and  also— and  alas! — they 
can  effect  another  kind  of  concealment,  and  when  the  heart 
within  is  inclined  to  soft  pity  and  yielding,  they  can  refuse  to 
confess  to  any  such  surrender,  and  can  maintain,  at  the  bid- 
ding of  a  willful  coquetry,  an  outward  and  obstinate  coldness 
and  indifference.  For  the  rest,  her  hair,  which  was  somewhat 
short  and  curly,  was  of  a  light  and  glossy  brown,  witli  a  touch 
of  sunshine  in  it;  she  had  a  good  figure,  for  she  came  of  a 

1 


2  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

quite  notedly  handsome  family ;  she  walked  with  a  light  step 
and  a  gracious  carriage ;  and  there  were  certain  touches  of  style 
and  color  ahout  her  costume  which  showed  that  she  did  not  in 
the  least  undervalue  her  appearance.  And  so  it  was  ' '  Good- 
morrow  to  you,  sweet  Mistress  Judith,"  from  this  one  and  the 
other;  and  "Good-morrow,  friend  So-and-so,"  she  would  an- 
swer ;  and  always  she  had  the  brightest  of  smiles  for  them  as 
they  passed. 

Well,  she  went  along  by  the  church,  and  over  the  foot- 
bridge spanning  the  Avon,  and  so  into  the  meadows  lying  ad- 
jacent to  the  stream.  To  all  appearance  she  was  bent  on  no- 
thing but  deliberate  idleness,  for  she  strayed  this  way  and  that, 
stooijing  to  pick  up  a  few  wild  flowers,  and  humming  to  her- 
self as  she  went.  On  this  fresh  and  clear  morning  the  air 
seemed  to  be  filled  with  sweet  perfumes  after  the  close  atmos- 
phere of  the  town ;  and  if  it  was  merely  to  gather  daisies,  and 
cuckoo-flowers,  and  buttercups,  that  she  had  come,  she  was 
obviously  in  no  hurry  about  it.  The  sun  was  warm  on  the 
rich  green  grass;  the  swallows  were  dipping  and  flashing  over 
the  river ;  great  humble-bees  went  booming  by ;  and  far  away 
somewhere  in  the  silver-clear  sky  a  lark  was  singing.  And 
she  also  was  singing,  as  she  strayed  along  by  the  side  of  the 
stream,  picking  here  and  there  a  speedwell,  and  here  and  there 
a  bit  of  self-heal  or  white  dead-nettle;  if,  indeed,  that  could  be 
termed  singing  that  was  but  a  careless  and  unconscious  recall- 
ing of  snatches  of  old  songs  and  madrigals.  At  one  moment 
it  was : 

Why,  say  you  so  ?     Oh  no,  no,  no  ; 
Young  maids  mtist  never  a-wooing  go. 


And  again  it  was : 


Come,  blow  thy  horn,  hunter  ! 
Corae,  blow  thy  horn,  hunter ! 
Come,  blow  thy  horn,  jolly  hunter  ! 

And  again  it  was: 

For  a  morn  in  spring  is  the  sweetest  thing 
Cometh  in  all  the  year  ! 

And  in  truth  she  could  not  have  lit  upon  a.  sweeter  morning 
than  this  was;  just  as  a  chance  passer-by  might  have  said  to 
himself  that  he  had  never  seen  a  pleasanter  sight  than  this 


AN  ASSIGNATION.  3 

young  English  maiden  presented  as  she  went  idly  along  the 
river-side,  gathering  wild  flowers  the  while. 

But  in  course  of  time,  when  she  came  to  a  part  of  the  Avon 
from  which  the  bank  ascended  sharp  and  steep,  and  when  she 
began  to  make  her  way  along  a  narrow  and  winding  foot-path 
that  ascended  through  the  wilderness  of  trees  and  bushes  hang- 
ing on  this  steep  bank,  she  became  more  circumspect.  There 
was  no  more  humming  of  songs ;  the  gathering  of  flowers  was 
abandoned,  though  here  she  might  have  added  a  wild  hyacinth 
or  two  to  her  nosegay ;  she  advanced  cautiously,  and  yet  with 
an  affectation  of  carelessness ;  and  she  was  examining,  while 
pretending  not  to  examine,  the  various  avenues  and  open 
spaces  in  the  dense  mass  of  foliage  before  her.  Apparently, 
however,  this  world  of  sunlight  and  green  leaves  and  cool 
shadow  was  quite  untenanted;  there  was  no  sound  but  that 
of  the  blackbird  and  the  thrush;  she  wandered  on  without 
meeting  any  one.  And  then,  as  she  had  now  arrived  at  a  lit- 
tle dell  or  chasm  in  the  wood,  she  left  the  foot-path,  climbed 
up  the  bank,  gained  the  summit,  and  finally,  passing  from 
among  the  bushes,  she  found  herself  in  the  open,  at  the  corner 
of  a  field  of  young  corn. 

Now  if  any  one  had  noticed  the  quick  and  searching  look 
that  she  flashed  all  around  on  the  moment  of  her  emerging 
from  the  brush-wood— the  swiftness  of  lightning  was  in  that 
rapid  scrutiny — he  might  have  had  some  suspicion  as  to  the 
errand  that  had  brought  her  hither ;  but  in  an  instant  her  eyes 
had  recovered  their  ordinary  look  of  calm  and  indifferent  ob- 
servation. She  turned  to  regard  the  wide  landscape  spread  out 
below  her;  and  the  stranger,  if  he  had  missed  that  quick  and 
eager,  glance,  would  have  naturally  supposed  that  she  had 
climbed  up  through  the  wood  to  this  open  space  merely  to 
have  a  better  view.  And  indeed  this  stretch  of  English-look- 
ing country  was  well  worth  the  trouble,  especially  at  this  par- 
ticular time  of  the  year,  when  it  was  clothed  in  the  fresh  and 
tender  colors  of  the  spring-time ;  and  it  was  with  much  seem- 
ing content  that  this  young  English  maiden  stood  there  and 
looked  abroad  over  the  prospect— at  the  placid  river  winding 
through  the  lush  meadows;  at  the  wooden  spire  of  the  church 
rising  above  the  young  foliage  of  the  elms;  at  here  and  there 
in  the  town  a  red-tiled  house  visible  among  the  thatched  roofs 


4  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

and  gray  walls  and  orchards — these  being  all  pale  and  ethereal 
and  dream-like  in  the  still  sunshine  of  this  quiet  morning.*  It 
was  a  peaceful  English-looking  picture  that  ought  to  have  in- 
terested her,  however  familiar  it  may  have  been  ;  and  perhaps 
it  was  only  to  look  at  it  once  more  that  she  had  made  her  way 
up  hither ;  and  also  to  breathe  the  cool  sweet  air  of  the  open,  and 
to  listen  to  the  singing  of  the  birds,  that  seemed  to  fill  the 
white  wide  spaces  of  the  sky  as  far  as  ever  she  could  hear. 

Suddenly  she  became  aware  that  some  one  was  behind  her 
and  near  her,  and  instantly  turning,  she  found  before  her  an 
elderly  man  with  a  voluminous  gray  beard,  who  appeared  to 
affect  some  kind  of  concealment  by  the  way  he  wore  his  hat 
and  his  long  cloak. 

"God  save  you,  sweet  lady !"  he  had  said,  almost  before  she 
turned. 

But  if  this  stranger  imagined  that  by  his  unlooked-for  ap- 
proach and  sudden  address  he  was  likely  to  startle  the  young 
damsel  out  of  her  self-  possession,  he  knew  very  little  with 
whom  he  had  to  deal. 

"  Good-morrow  to  you,  good  Master  Wizard,"  said  she,  with 
perfect  calmness,  and  she  regarded  him  from  head  to  foot  with 
nothing  beyond  a  mild  curiosity.  Indeed,  it  was  rather  he 
who  was  embarrassed.  He  looked  at  her  with  a  kind  of  won- 
der— and  admiration  also;  and  if  she  had  been  sufficiently 
heedful  and  watchful  she  might  have  observed  that  his  eyes, 
which  were  singularly  dark,  had  a  good  deal  of  animation  in 
them  for  one  of  his  years.  It  was  only  after  a  second  or  so 
of  this  bewildered  and  admiring  contemplation  of  her  that  he 
managed  to  say,  in  a  grave  and  formal  voice,  something  in 
praise  of  her  courage  in  thus  keeping  the  appointment  he  had 
sought. 

"Nay,  good  sir,"  said  she,  with  much  complacency,  "trou- 
ble not  yourself  about  me.  There  is  no  harm  in  going  out  to 
gather  a  few  flowers  in  the  field,  surely.  If  there  be  any  dan- 
ger, it  is  rather  you  that  have  to  fear  it,  for  there  is  the  pil- 
lory for  them  that  go  about  the  country  divining  for  gold  and 
silver." 

"It  is  for  no  such  vain  and  idle  purposes  that  I  use  my 
art,"  said  he;  and  he  regarded  her  with  such  an  intensity  of 
interest  that  sometimes  he  stumbled  forgetfully  in  his  speech, 


a 
o 


-1 
o 


«• 


AN  ASSIGNATION.  7 

as  if  he  were  repeating  a  lesson  but  ill  prepai-ed.  "It  is  for 
the  revelation  of  the  future  to  them  that  are  born  under  fortu- 
nate planets.  And  you  are  one  of  these,  sweet  lady,  or  I 
would  not  have  summoned  you  to  a  meeting  that  might  have 
seemed  perilous  to  one  of  less  courage  and  good*  heart.  If  it 
please  you  to  listen,  I  can  forecast  that  that  will  befall  you — " 
"  Nay,  good  sir,"  said  she,  with  a  smile,  ' '  I  have  heard  it  fre- 
quently, though  perhaps  never  from  one  so  skilled.  'Tis  but 
a  question  between  dark  and  fair,  with  plenty  of  money  and 
lands  thrown  in.  For  that  matter,  I  might  set  up  in  the 
trade  myself.     But  if  you  could  tell  me,  now — " 

"  If  I  were  to  tell  you — if  by  my  art  I  could  show  you,"  said 
he,  with  a  solemnity  that  was  at  least  meant  to  be  impressive 
(though  this  young  maid,  with  her  lips  inclining  to  a  smile,  and 
her  inscrutable  eyes,  did  not  seem  much  awe-stricken) — "  if  I 
could  convince  you,  sweet  lady,  that  you  shall  marry  neither 
dai-k  nor  fair  among  any  of  those  that  would  now  fain  win 
you — and  rumor  says  there  be  several  of  those — what  then  ?" 

"Rumor  ?"  she  repeated,  with  the  color  swiftly  mantling  in 
her  face.     But  she  was  startled,  and  she  said,  quickly,  "What 
do  you  say,  good  wizard  ?     Not  any  one  that  I  know  ?     What 
surety  have  you  of  that  ?     Is  it  true  ?     Can  you  show  it  to 
me  ?     Can  you  assure  me  of  it  ?     Is  your  skill  so  gref>* 
y^ou  can  prove  to  me  that  your  prophecy  is  aup-^  ' 
guessing  ?     No  one  that  I  have  seen  as  yet,  sa-^ 
she  added,  half  to  herself,  "but  th-at  v'- 
jo.ssip  Prue." 

"My  daugliter,"  said  thi'^  .A  mea- 

;ured  tones,  "it  is  not  ' 
ious  at  their  bir*' 

"Good  '■'  T  b»- seech  you 

org'"  '■  nia  is  the  truth, 

.^es-sage  to  me.     I  will 

.1  not  quite  belied  herself. 

'J  \,  til    Luink  too  well  of  me,  and  would 

'iim  to  be  my  lover ;  and — and — do  you 

3>  were  one  of  those  that  I  would  fain  have 

ir.    .(Side  liom  idle  thoughts  of  me  and  show  more  favor  to 

ly  c  u,r  cousin  and  gossip  Prudence  Shawe — nay,  but  to  tell 

'  le  truth,  good  wizard,  I  came  here  to  seek  of  your  skill  wheth- 


8  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

er  it  could  afford  some  charm  and  magic  that  would  direct  his 
heart  to  her.     I  have  heard  of  such  things—-' 

And  liere  she  stopped  abruptly,  in  some  confusion,  for  she 
had  in  her  eagerness  admitted  a  half -belief  in  the  possible  power 
of  his  witchcraft' which  she  had  been  careful  to  conceal  before. 
She  had  professed  incredulity  by  her  very  manner;  she  had 
almost  laughed  at  his  pretensions ;  she  had  intimated  that  she 
had  come  only  out  of  curiosity ;  but  now  she  had  blundered 
into  the  confession  that  she  had  cherished  some  vague  hope  of 
obtaining  a  love-philtre,  or  some  such  thing,  to  transfer  away 
from  herself  to  her  friend  the  affections  of  one  of  those  suit- 
ors whose  existence  seemed  to  be  so  well  known  to  the  wizard. 
However,  he  soon  relieved  her  from  her  embarrasSTnent  by  as- 
suring her  that  this  that  she  demanded  was  far  away  beyond 
the  scope  of  his  art,  which  was  strictly  limited  to  the  discovery 
and  revelation  of  such  secrets  as  still  lay  within  the  future. 

"And  if  so,  good  sir,  "said  she,  after  a  moment's  reflection, 
"that  were  enough,  or  nearly  enough,  so  that  you  can  con- 
vince us  of  it." 

"To  you  yourself  alone,  gracious  lady,"  said  he,  "can  I  re- 
veal that  which  will  happen  to  you.  Nay,  more,  so  fortunate 
is  the  conjunction  of  the  planets  that  reigned  at  your  birth — 
the  ultimum  suppliciuin  aiiri  might  almost  have  been  de- 
clared to  you — that  I  can  summon  from  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
be  fee  where  he  may,  the  man  that  you  shall  hereafter  marry, 
or  sooii  or  late  I  know  notr  if  you  will,  you  can  behold  him 
at  such  a2id  such  a  time,  at  such  and  such  a  place,  as  the  stai's 
shall  appoint." 

She  looked  puzzled,  half-incredulous  and  perplexed,  inclined 
to  smile,  blushing  somewhat,  and  all  uncertain. 

"  It  is  a  temptation — I  were  no  woman  else,"  said  she,  with 
a  laugh.  "  Nay,  but  if  I  can  see  him,  why  may  not  others? 
And  if  I  can  show  them,  him  who  is  to  be  my  worshipful  lord 
and  master,  why,  then,  my  gossip  Prue  may  have  the  better 
chance  of  reaching  the  goal  where  I  doubt  not  Lo-  licart  is  fix- 
ed. Come,  then,  to  prove  your  skill,  good  sir.  Wliere  shall 
I  see  him,  and  when  ?  Must  I  use  charms  ?  Will  he  speak, 
think  you,  or  pass  as  a  gliost  ?  But  if  he  be  not  a  proper 
man,  good  wizard,  by  my  life  I  will  have  none  of  him,  nor  of 
your  magic  either." 


AN  ASSIGNATION.  9 

She  was  laughing  now,  and  rather  counterfeiting  a  kind  of 
scorn ;  but  she  was  curious ;  and  she  watched  him  with  a  live- 
ly interest  as  he  took  forth  from  a  small  leather  bag  a  little 
folded  piece  of  paper,  which  he  carefully  opened. 

"I  can  not  answer  all  your  questions,  my  daughter,"  said 
he;  "I  can  but  proceed  according  to  my  art.  Whether  the 
person  you  will  see  may  be  visible  to  others  I  know  not,  nor 
can  I  tell  you  aught  of  his  name  or  condition.  Pi^ay  Heaven 
he  be  worthy  of  such  beauty  and  gentleness;  for  I  had  heard 
of  you,  gracious  lady,  but  rumor  had  but  poor  words  to  de- 
scribe such  a  rarity  and  a  prize." 

' '  Nay, "  said  she,  in  tones  of  reproof  (but  the  color  had  mount- 
ed to  a  face  that  certainly  showed  no  sign  of  displeasure),  "you 
speak  like  one  of  tbe  courtiers  now." 

"This  charm,"  said  he,  dropping  his  eyes,  and  returning  to 
his  grave  and  formal  tones,  ' '  is  worth  naught  without  a  sprig 
of  rosemary ;  that  must  you  get,  and  you  must  place  it  within 
the  paper  in  a  threefold  manner — thus;  and  then,  when  Sol 
and  Luna  are  both  in  the  descendant —  But  I  forget  me,  the 
terms  of  my  art  are  unknown  to  you  ;  I  must  speak  in  the  vul- 
gar tongue;  and  meanwhile  you  shall  see  the  charm,  that  there 
is  nothing  wicked  or  dangerous  in  it,  but  only  the  where- 
withal to  bring  about  a  true  lovers'  meeting." 

He  lianded  her  the  open  piece  of  paper;  but  she,  having 
glanced  at  the  writing,  gave  it  liini  back  again. 

"  I  pray  you  read  it  to  me,"  she  said. 

He  regarded  her  for  a  second  with  some  slighl  surprise ;  but 
he  took  the  paper,  and  read  aloud,  slowly,  the  lines  written 

thereon : 

"  Dare  you  haunt  07ir  hallowed  green  ? 
None  but  fairies  here  are  seen. 
Down  aiul  sleep, 
Wake  and  vjeep, 
Pinch  him  black,  and  pinch  him  blue, 
That  seeks  to  steal  a  lover  true. 
WJicn  you  come  to  hear  us  sing. 
Or  to  tread  our  fairy  ring, 
Pinch  hirn  black,  and  pinch  him  blue — ■ 
Oh,  thus  our  nails  shall  handle  youP'' 

"  Why,  'tis  like  what  my  father  wrote  about  Heme  the 
Hunter,"  said  she,  with  a  touch  of  indifference ;  perhaps  she  had 
expected  to  hear  something  more  weird  and  unholy. 


10  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

"Please  you,  forget  not  the  rosemary;  nothing  will  come 
of  it  else,"  he  continued.  "Then  this  you  must  take  in  your 
hand  secretly,  and  when  no  one  has  knowledge  of  your  out- 
going; and  when  Luna — nay,  but  I  mean  v/hen  the  moon  has 
risen  to-night  so  that,  standing  in  the  church-yard,  you  shall 
see  it  over  the  roof  of  the  church,  then  must  you  go  to  the 
yew-tree  that  is  in  the  middle  of  the  church-yard,  and  there  you 
shall  scrape  away  a  little  of  the  earth  from  near  the  foot  of  the 
tree,  and  bury  this  paper,  and  put  the  earth  firmly  down  on  it 
again,  saying  thrice,  Hieronymo  !  Hieronymo  !  Hieronymo ! 
You  follow  me,  sweet  lady  ?" 

"'Tis  simple  enough,"  said  she,  "but  that  on  these  fine 
evenings  the  people  are  everywhere  about;  and  if  one  were  to 
be  seen  conjuring  in  the  churchyai-d — " 

"You  must  watch  your  opportunity,  my  daughter,"  said 
he,  speaking  with  an  increased  assumption  of  authority.  "  One 
minute  will  serve  you;  and  this  is  all  that  needs  be  done." 

"Truly?  Is  this  all  ?"  said  she,  and  she  laughed  lightly. 
' '  Then  will  my  gallant,  my  pride  o'  the  world,  my  lord  and 
master,  forthwith  spring  out  of  the  solid  ground  ?  God  mend 
me,  but  that  were  a  fearful  meeting — in  a  church-yard !  Gen- 
tle wizard,  I  pray  you — " 

"Not  so,"  he  answei-ed,  interrupting  her.  "The  charm 
will  work  there;  you  must  let  it  rest;  the  night  dews  shall 
nourish  it;  the  slow  hours  shall  i^ass  over  it;  and  the  spirits 
that  haunt  these  precincts  must  know  of  it,  that  they  may 
prepare  the  meeting.  To-night,  then,  sweet  lady,  you  shall 
place  this  charm  in  the  church-yard  at  the  foot  of  the  yew-tree, 
and  to-morrow  at  twelve  of  the  clock — " 

"By  your  leave,  not  to-morrow,"  said  she,  peremptorily. 
' '  Not  to-morrow,  good  wizard ;  for  my  father  comes  home  to- 
morrow; and,  by  my  life,  I  would  not  miss  the  going  forth 
to  meet  him  for  all  the  lovers  between  here  and  London  town  !" 

"Your  father  comes  home  to-morrow,  Mistress  Judith  ?"  said 
he,  in  somewhat  startled  accents. 

"  In  truth  he  does ;  and  Master  Tyler  also,  and  Julius  Shawe 
— there  will  be  a  goodly  company,  I  warrant  you,  come  riding 
to-morrow  through  Shipston  and  Tredington  and  Alderminster ; 
and  by  your  leave,  reverend  sir,  the  magic  must  wait." 

"That  were  easily  done,"  he  answered,  after  a  moment's 


AN  ASSIGNATION.  11 

thoug-ht,  "by  the  alteration  of  a  sign,  if  the  day  following 
might  find  you  at  liberty.      Will  it  so,  gracious  lady  ?" 

' '  The  day  after  ?     At  what  time  of  the  day  ?"  she  asked. 

"The  alteration  of  the  sign  will  make  it  but  an  hour  earlier, 
if  I  mistake  not ;  that  is  to  say,  at  eleven  of  the  forenoon  you 
must  be  at  the  appointed  jDlace — " 

"Where,  good  wizard?"  said  she — "where  am  I  to  see  the 
wraith,  the  ghost,  the  phantom  husband  that  is  to  own  me  ?" 

"  That  know  I  not  myself  as  yet;  but  my  aids  and  familiars 
will  try  to  discover  it  for  me,"  he  answered,  taking  a  small 
sun-dial  out  of  his  pocket  and  adjusting  it  as  he  spoke. 

"And  with  haste,  so  please  you,  good  sir,"  said  she,  "for  I 
would  not  that  any  chance  comer  had  a  tale  of  this  meeting 
to  carry  back  to  the  gossips." 

He  stooped  down  and  placed  the  sun-dial  carefully  on  the 
ground,  at  a  spot  wliei'e  the  young  corn  was  but  scant  enough 
on  the  dry  red  soil,  and  then  with  his  forefinger  he  traced  two 
or  three  lines  and  a  semicircle  on  the  crumbling  earth. 

"South  by  west,"  said  he,  and  he  muttered  some  words  to 
him.self.  Then  he  looked  up.  "Know  you  the  road  to  Bid- 
ford,  sweet  lady  ?" 

"  As  well  as  I  know  my  own  ten  fingers,"  she  answered. 

"  For  myself,  I  know  it  not,  but  if  my  art  is  not  misleading, 
there  should  be  about  a  mile  or  more  along  that  road,  another 
road  at  right  angles  with  it,  bearing  to  the  right,  and  there  at 
the  junction  slioukl  stand  a  cross  of  stone.     Is  it  so  ?" 

"'Tis  the  lane  that  leads  to  Shottery;  well  I  know  it,"  she 
said. 

"So  it  has  been  appointed,  then,"  said  he,  "if  the  stars  con- 
tinue their  protection  over  you.  The  day  after  to-morrow,  at 
eleven  of  the  forenoon,  if  you  be  within  stone's-throw  of  the 
cross  at  the  junction  of  the  roads,  there  shall  you  see,  or  my  art 
is  strangely  mistaken,  the  man  or  gentleman — nay,  I  know  not 
whether  he  be  parson  or  layman,  soldier  or  merchant,  knight  of 
the  shire  or  plain  goodman  Dick — I  say  there  shall  you  see 
him  that  is  to  win  you  and  wear  you;  but  at  what  time  you 
shall  become  his  wife,  and  where,  and  in  what  circumstances, 
I  can  not  reveal  to  you.     I  have  done  my  last  endeavor." 

"Nay,  do  not  hold  me  ungrateful,"  she  said,  though  there 
was  a  smile  on  her  lips,  "  but  surely,  good  sir,  what  your  skill 

1* 


12  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

has  done,  that  it  can  also  undo.  If  it  have  power  to  raise  a 
ghost,  sui'ely  it  lias  power  to  lay  him.  And  ti'uly,  if  he  be  a 
ghost,  I  will  not  have  him.  And  if  he  be  a  man,  and  have  a  red 
beard,  I  will  not  have  him.  And  if  he  be  a  slape-face,  I  will 
have  none  of  him.  And  if  he  liave  thin  legs,  he  may  walk  his 
ways  for  me.  Good  wizard,  if  I  like  him  not,  you  must  undo 
the  charm." 

"My  daughter,  you  have  a  light  heart,"  said  he,  gravely. 
"May  the  favoring  planets  grant  it  lead  you  not  into  mis- 
chief ;  there  be  unseen  powers  that  are  revengeful.  And  now 
I  must  take  my  leave,  gracious  lady.  I  liave  given  you  the 
result  of  much  study  and  labor,  of  much  solitary  communion 
with  the  heavenly  bodies ;  take  it,  and  use  it  with  heed,  and  so 
fare  you  well." 

He  was  going,  but  she  detained  him. 

"Grood  sir,  I  am  your  debtor,"  said  she,  with  the  red  blood 
mantling  in  her  forehead,  for  all  through  this  interview  she 
had  clearly  recognized  that  she  was  not  dealing  with  any  ordi- 
nary mendicant  fortune-teller.  "So  much  labor  and  skill  I 
can  not  accept  from  you  without  becoming  a  beggar.  I  pray 
you—" 

He  put  up  his  hand. 

"Not  so,"  said  he,  with  a  certain  grave  dignity.  "To  have 
set  eyes  on  the  fairest  maid  in  Warwickshire — as  I  have  heard 
you  named — were  surely  sufficient  recompense  for  any  trouble ; 
and  to  have  had  speech  of  you,  sweet  lady,  is  what  many  a 
one  would  venture  much  for.  But  I  would  humbly  kiss  your 
hand;  and  so  again  fare  you  well." 

"God  shield  you,  most  courteous  wizard,  and  good-day,"' 
said  she,  as  he  left;  and  for  a  second  she  stood  looking  after 
him  in  a  kind  of  wonder,  for  this  extraordinary  courtesy  and 
dignity  of  manner  were  certainly  not  what  she  had  expected 
to  find  in  a  vagabond  purveyor  of  magic.  But  now  he  was 
gone,  and  she  held  the  charm  in  her  hand,  and  so  without  fur- 
ther ado  she  set  out  for  home  again,  getting  down  through 
the  brush-wood  to  the  winding  path. 

She  walked  quickly,  for  she  had  heard  that  Master  Bushell's 
daughter,  who  was  to  be  married  that  day,  meant  to  beg  a 
general  holiday  for  the  school-boys;  and  she  knew  that  if  this 
were  granted  these  sharp-eyed  young  imps  would  soon  be  here, 


"there,  now,  is  my  sweetheart  of  sweethearts." 


AN  ASSIGNATION.  15 

there,  and  everywhere,  and  certain  to  spy  out  the  wizard  if 

he  were  in  the  neighborhood.     But  when  she 'had  got  clear  of 

this  hanging  copse,  that  is  known  as  the  Wier  Brake,  and  had 

reached  the  open  meadows,  so  that  from  any  part  around  she 

could  be  seen  to  be  alone,  she  had  nothing  further  to  fear,  and 

she  returned  to  her  leisurely  straying  in  quest  of  flowers.     The 

sun  was  hotter  on  the  grass  now ;  but  the  swallows  were  busy 

as  ever  over  the  stream;  and  the  great  bees  hummed  loud  as 

they  went  past ;  and  here  and  there  a  white  butterfly  fluttered 

from  petal  to  petal ;  and,  far  away,  she  could  hear  the  sound 

of  children's  voices  in  the  stillness.     She  was  in  a  gay  mood. 

The  interview  she  had  just  had  with  one  in  league  with  the 

occult  powers  of  magic  and  witchery  did  not  seem  in  the  least 

to  have  overawed  her.     Perhaps,  indeed,  she  had  not  yet  made 

up  her  mind  to  try  the  potent  charm  that  she  had  obtained ;  at 

all  events  the  question  did  not  weigh  heavily  on  her.     For  now 

it  was, 

Oil,  mistress  mine,  cohere  are  you  roaming? 

and  again  it  was, 

For  a  morn  in  spring  is  the  sweetest  thing 
Cometh  in  all  the  year! 

and  always  another  touch  of  color  added  to  the  daintily  ar- 
ranged bouquet  in  her  hand.  And  then,  of  a  sudden,  as  she 
chanced  to  look  ahead,  she  observed  a  number  of  the  scliool- 
boys  come  swarming  down  to  the  foot-bridge;  and  slie  knew 
right  well  that  one  of  them — to  wit,  young  Willie  Hart — would 
think  a  holiday  quite  thrown  away  and  wasted  if  he  did  not 
manage  to  seek  out  and  secure  the  company  of  his  pretty  cous- 
in Judith. 

"Ah  !  there,  now,"  she  was  saying  to  herself,  as  she  watched 
the  school-boys  come  over  the  bridge  one  by  one  and  two  by 
two,  "there,  now,  is  my  sweetheart  of  sweethearts;  there  is 
my  prince  of  lovers!  If  ever  I  hav^e  lover  as  faithful  and  kind 
as  he,  it  will  go  well.  '  Nay,  Susan,'  says  he,  '  I  love  you  not; 
you  kiss  me  hard,  and  speak  to  me  as  if  I  were  a  child;  I  still 
love  Judith  better.'  And  how  cruel  of  my  father  to  put  him  in- 
the  play,  and  to  slay  him  so  soon ;  but  perchance  he  will  call 
him  to  life  again — nay,  it  is  a  favorite  way  with  him  to  do  that; 
and  pray  Heaven  he  brings  home  with  him  to-morrow  the  rest 
of  the  story,  that  Prue  may  read  it  to  me.      And  so  are  you 


16  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

there,  among  the  unruly  imps,  you  young  Prince  Mamillius  ? 
Have  you  caught  sight  of  me  yet,  sweetheart  blue-eyes  ?  Why, 
come,  then ;  you  will  outstrip  them  all,  I  know,  when  you  get 
sight  of  Cousin  Judith,  for  as  far  off  as  you  are,  you  will 
reach  me  first,  that  I  am  sure  of;  and  then,  by  my  life,  sweet- 
heart Willie,  you  shall  have  a  kiss  as  soft  as  a  dove's  breast !" 

And  so  she  went  on  to  meet  them,  arranging  the  colors  of 
her  straggling  blossoms  the  while,  with  now  and  again  a  snatch 
of  careless  song : 

Come,  blow  thy  horn,  hunter  ! 
Conic,  blow  thy  horn,  hunter! 
Come,  blow  thy  horn — jolly  hunter!  • 


CHAPTER  II. 

SIGNIOR  CRAB-APPLE. 

.  There  was  much  ado  in  the  house  all  that  day,  in  view  of 
the  home-coming  on  the  morrow,  and  it  was  not  till  pretty  late 
in  the  evening  that  Judith  was  free  to  steal  out  for  a  gossip 
with  her  friend  and  chief  companion.  Prudence  Shawe.  She 
had  not  far  to  go — but  a  couple  of  doors  off,  in  fact;  and  her 
coming  was  observed  by  Prudence  herself,  who  happened  to  be 
sitting  at  the  casemented  window  for  the  better  prosecution  of 
her  needle-work,  there  being  still  a  clear  glow  of  twilight  in 
the  sky.  A  minute  or  so  thereafter  the  two  friends  wei-e  la 
Prudence's  own  chamber,  which  was  on  the  first  floor,  and 
looking  out  to  the  back  over  barns  and  orchards;  and  they 
had  gone  to  the  window,  to  the  bench  there,  to  have  their 
seci^ets  together.  This  Prudence  Sliawe  was  some  two  years 
Judith's  junior — though  she  really  played  the  part  of  elder  sis- 
ter to  her;  she  was  of  a  pale  complexion,  with  light  straw-col- 
ored hair ;  not  very  pretty,  perhaps,  but  she  had  a  restful  kind 
of  face  that  invited  friendliness  and  sympathy,  of  which  she 
had  a  large  abundance  to  give  in  return.  Her  costume  was  of 
a  Puritanical  plainness  and  primness,  both  in  the  fashion  of  it 
and  in  its  severe  avoidance  of  color ;  and  that  was  not  the  only 
point  on  which  she  formed  a  marked  contrast  to  this  dear  cous- 
in and  willful  gossip  of  hers,  who  had  a  way  of  pleasing  herself 
(more  especially  if  she  thought  she  might  thereby  catch  her  fa- 


SIGNIOR  CRAB-APPLE.  17 

ther's  eye)  in  apparel  as  in  most  other  things.  And  on  this  oc- 
casion— at  ths  outset  at  all  events — Judith  would  not  have  a 
word  said  about  the  assignation  of  the  morning.  The  wizard 
was  dismissed  from  her  mind  altogether.  It  was  about  the 
home-coming  of  the  next  day  that  she  was  all  eagerness  and  ex- 
citement ;  and  her  chief  prayer  and  entreaty  was  that  her  friend 
Prudence  should  go  with  her  to  welcome  the  travellers  home. 

"Nay,  but  you  must  and  shall,  dear  Prue;  sweet  mouse,  I 
beg  it  of  you !"  she  was  urging.  "  Every  one  at  New  Place  is 
so  busy  that  they  have  fixed  upon  Signior  Crab-apple  to  ride 
with  me;  and  you  know  I  can  not  suffer  him ;  and  I  shall  not 
have  a  word  of  my  father  all  the  way  back,  not  a  word ;  there 
will  be  nothing  but  a  discourse  about  fools,  and  idle  jests,  and 
Wiseman  Matthew  the  hero  of  the  day — " 

"  Dear  Judith,  I  can  not  understand  how  you  dislike  the  old 
man  so,"  her  companion  said,  in  that  smooth  voice  of  hers. 
"I  see  no  garden  that  is  better  tended  than  yours." 

"I  would  I  could  let  slip  the  mastiff  at  his  unmannerly 
throat!"  was  the  quick  reply — and  indeed  for  a  second  she 
looked  as  if  she  would  fain  have  seen  that  wish  fulfilled. 
"  The  vanity  of  him! — the  puffed-up  pride  of  him! — he  thinks 
there  be  none  in  Warwickshire  but  himself  wise  enough  to  talk 
to  my  father;  and  the  way  he  dogs  his  steps  if  he  be  walking 
in  the  garden — no  one  else  may  have  a  word  with  him! — sure 
my  fatlier  is  sufficiently  driven  forth  by  the  preachers  and  the 
psalm-singing  within-doors  that  out-of-doors,  in  his  own  garden, 
he  might  have  some  freedom  of  speech  with  his  own  daughter — " 

"Judith,  Judith,"  her  friend  said,  and  she  put  her  hand  on 
her  arm,  "you  liave  such  willful  thoughts,  and  wild  words  too. 
I  am  sure  your  father  is  free  of  speech  with  every  one — gentle 
and  simple,  old  and  young,  it  matters  not  who  it  is  that  ap- 
proaches him." 

"This  Signior  Crab-apple  truly !"  the  other  exclaimed,  in  the 
impetuosity  of  her  scorn.  "If  his  heart  be  as  big  as  a  crab-ap- 
ple, I  greatly  doubt;  but  that  it  is  of  like  quality  I'll  be  sworn. 
And  the  bitterness  of  his  railing  tongue  1  All  women  are  fools 
— vools  he  calls  them,  rather — first  and  foremost;  and  most 
men  are  fools;  but  of  all  fools  there  be  none  like  the  fools  of 
Warwickshire — that  is  because  my  worshipful  goodman  gar- 
dener comes  all  the  way  from  Bewdley.      'Tis  meat  and  drink 


18  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

to  him,  he  says,  to  discover  a  fool,  though  how  he  should  have 
any  difficulty  in  the  discovering,  seeing  that  we  are  all  of  us 
fools,  passes  my  understanding.  Nay,  but  I  know  what  set 
him  after  that  quarry;  'twas  one  day  in  the  garden,  and  my 
father  was  just  come  home  from  London,  and  he  was  talking 
to  my  uncle  Gilbert,  and  was  laughing  at  what  his  friend  Ben- 
jamin Jonson  had  said,  or  had  written,  I  know  not  which. 
'Of  all  beasts  in  the  world,'  says  he,  'I  love  most  the  serious 
ass.'  Then  up  steps  goodman  Matthew.  '  There  be  plenty  of 
'em  about  'ere,  zur,'  says  he,  with  a  grin  on  his  face  like  that 
on  a  cat  when  a  dog  has  her  by  the  tail.  And  my  father,  who 
will  talk  to  any  one,  as  you  say  truly,  and  about  anything,  and 
always  with  the  same  attention,  must  needs  begin  to  challenge 
goodman  Crab-apple  to  declare  the  greatest  fools  that  ever  he 
had  met  with ;  and  from  that  day  to  this  the  ancient  sour-face 
hath  been  on  the  watch— and  it  suits  well  with  his  opinion  of 
other  people  and  his  opinion  of  himself  as  the  only  wise  man 
in  the  world— I  say  ever  since  he  hath  been  on  the  watch  for 
fools ;  and  the  greater  the  fool  the  greater  his  wisdom,  I  reckon, 
that  can  find  him  out.  A  purveyor  of  fools !— a  goodly  trade ! 
I  doubt  not  but  that  it  likes  him  better  than  the  tending  of  ap- 
ricots when  he  has  the  free  range  of  the  ale-houses  to  work  on. 
He  will  bring  a  couple  of  them  into  the  garden  when  my  father 
is  in  the  summer-house.  '  'Ere,  zur,  please  you  come  out  and 
look  'ere,  zur;  'ere  be  a  brace  of  rare  vools.'  And  the  poor 
clowns  are  proud  of  it ;  they  stand  and  look  at  each  other  and 
laugh.  '  We  be,  zur— we  be.'  And  then  my  father  will  say 
no,  and  will  talk  with  them,  and  cheer  them  with  assurance  of 
their  wisdom;  then  must  they  have  spiced  bread  and  ale  ere 
they  depart;  and  this  is  a  triumph  for  Master  Matthew— the 
withered,  shrivelled,  dried-up,  cankered  nutshell  that  he  is !" 

"Dear  Judith,  pray  have  patience— indeed  you  are  merely 
jealous." 

"Jealous!"  she  exclaimed,  as  if  her  scorn  of  this  ill-con- 
ditioned old  man  put  that  well  out  of  the  question. 

' '  You  think  he  has  too  much  of  your  father's  company,  and 
you  like  it  not ;  but  consider  of  it,  Judith,  he  being  in  the  gar- 
den, and  your  father  in  the  summer-house,  and  when  your  fa- 
ther is  tired  for  the  moment  of  his  occupation,  whatever  that 
may  be,  then  can  he  step  out  and  speak  to  this  goodman  Mat- 


SIGNIOR  CRAB- APPLE.  19 

thew,  that  amuses  him  with  his  biting  tongue,  and  with  the 
self-sufficiency  of  his  wisdom— nay,  I  suspeet  your  father  holds 
him  to  be  a  greater  fool  than  any  that  he  makes  sport  of,  and 
that  he  loves  to  lead  him  on." 

"And  why  should  my  father  have  to  be  in  the  summer- 
house  but  that  indoors  the  w^ool-spinning  is  hardly  more  con- 
stant than  the  lecturing  and  the  singing  of  psalms  and  hymns  ?" 

"Judith!  Judith!"  said  her  gentle  friend,  with  real  ti-ouble 
on  her  face,  ' '  you  grieve  me  when  you  talk  like  that— indeed 
you  do,  sweetheart!  There  is  not  a  morning  nor  a  night 
passes  that  I  do  not  pray  the  Lord  that  your  heart  may  be  soft- 
ened and  led  to  our  ways— nay,  far  from  that,  but  to  the  Lord's 
own  ways — and  the  answer  will  come ;  I  have  faith ;  I  know 
it ;  and  God  send  it  speedily,  for  you  are  like  an  own  sister  to 
me,  and  my  heart  yearns  over  you !" 

The  other  sat  silent  for  a  second.  She  could  not  fail  to  be 
touched  by  the  obvious  sincerity,  the  longing  kindness  of  her 
friend,  but  she  would  not  confess  as  much  in  words. 

"As  yet,  sweet  Prue,"  said  she,  lightly,  "I  suppose  I  am  of 
the  unregenerate,  and  if  it  is  wicked  to  cherish  evil  thoughts 
of  your  neighbor,  then  am  I  not  of  the  elect,  for  I  heartily  wish 
that  Tom  Quiney  and  some  of  the  youths  would  give  Matthew 
gardener  a  sound  ducking  in  a  horse-pond,  to  tame  his  arro- 
gance withal.  But  no  matter.  What  say  you,  dear  Prue? 
Will  you  go  with  me  to-morrow,  so  that  we  may  have  the  lad 
Tookey  in  charge  of  us,  and  Signior  Crab-apple  be  left  to  his 
weeding  and  graffing  and  railing  at  human  kind  ?  Do,  sweet 
mouse — " 

"The  maids  are  busy  now,  Judith,"  said  she,  doubtfully. 

"But  a  single  day,  dear  mouse!"  she  urged.  "And  if  we 
go  early  we  may  get  as  far  as  Shipston,  and  await  them  there. 
Have  you  no  desire  to  meet  your  bi*other.  Prudence— to  be  the 
first  of  all  to  welcome  him  home  ?  Nay,  that  is  because  you  can 
have  him  in  your  company  as  often  as  you  wish;  there  is  no 
goodman-wiseman-fool  to  come  between  you." 

"Dear  heart, "said  Prudence  Shawe,  with  a  smile,  "I  know 
not  what  is  the  witchery  of  you,  but  there  is  none  I  wot  of 
that  can  say  you  nay." 

"You  will,  then?"  said  the  other,  joyfully.  "Ab,  look, 
now,  the  long  ride  home  we  shall  have  with  my  father,  and 


20  JUDITH   SHAKESPEARE. 

all  the  news  I  shall  have  to  tell  him!  And  all  good  news, 
Prue ;  scarcely  a  whit  or  bit  that  is  not  good  news :  the  roan 
that  he  bought  at  Evesham  is  well  of  her  lameness — good ;  and 
the  King's  mulbei'ry  is  thriving  bravely  (I  wonder  that  wise- 
man  Matthew  has  not  done  it  a  mischief  in  the  night-time,  for 
the  King,  being  above  him  in  station,  must  needs  have  nothing 
from  him  but  sour  and  envious  words) ;  and  then  the  twenty 
acres  tliat  my  father  so  set  his  heart  upon  he  is  to  have — I  hear 
that  the  Combes  have  said  as  much — and  my  fatlier  will  be 
right  well  pleased ;  and  the  vicar  is  talking  no  longer  of  build- 
ing the  new  piggery  over  against  the  garden — at  least  for  the 
present  there  is  nothing  to  be  done :  all  good  news ;  but  there  is 
better  still,  as  you  know;  for  what  will  he  say  when  he  dis- 
cover that  I  have  taught  Bess  Hall  to  ride  the  mastiff?" 

"  Pray  you  have  a  care,  dear  Judith,"  said  her  friend,  with 
some  apprehension  on  her  face.  " 'Tis  a  dangerous-looking 
beast." 

' '  A  lamb,  a  very  lamb !"  was  the  confident  answer.  ' '  Well, 
now,  and  as  we  ai'e  riding  home  he  will  tell  me  of  all  the 
things  he  has  brought  from  London  ;  and  you  know  he  has  al- 
ways something  pretty  for  you,  sweet  Puritan,  though  you  re- 
gard such  adornments  as  snares  and  pitfalls.  And  this  time 
I  hope  it  will  be  a  silver  brooch  for  you,  dear  mouse,  that  so 
you  must  needs  wear  it  and  show  it,  or  he  will  mark  its  ab- 
sence ;  and  for  the  others  let  us  guess ;  let  us  see.  There  may 
be  some  more  of  that  strange-fashioned  Murano  glass  for  Susan, 
for  as  difficult  as  it  is  to  carry ;  and  some  silk  hangings  or  the 
like  for  my  mother,  or  store  of  napery,  perchance,  which  she 
prizeth  more;  and  be  sure  there  is  the  newest  book  of  sermons 
from  Paul's  Church-yard  for  the  Doctor;  a  greyhound,  should 
he  hear  of  a  famous  one  on  the  way,  for  Thomas  Combe ;  toys 
for  the  little  Harts,  that  is  certain;  for  my  aunt  Joan — what? — 
a  silver-topped  jug,  or  some  perfumes  of  musk  and  civet? — 
and  what  else — and  for  whom  else — well — " 

"  But  what  for  youx-self,  dear  Judith  ?"  her  friend  said,  with 
a  smile.  "Will  he  forget  you  ?  Has  Matthew  gardener  driv- 
en you  out  even  from  his  recollection  ?  Will  he  not  have  for 
you  a  pretty  pair  of  rose  shoe-strings,  or  one  of  the  new  tas- 
selled  French  hoods  they  are  speaking  of,  or  something  of  the 
kind,  that  will  turn  the  heads  of  all  the  lads  in  Stratford  twice 


SIGNIOR  CRAB-APPLE.  21 

further  round  ?  You  are  a  temptress  surely,  sweetheart ;  I  half 
forget  that  such  vanities  should  displease  me  when  I  see  the 
way  you  wear  them  ;  and  that  I  think  you  must  take  from  your 
father,  Judith ;  for  no  matter  how  plain  his  apparel  is — and  it 
is  plain  indeed  for  one  that  owns  the  New  Place — he  wears 
it  with  such  an  ease,  and  with  such  a  grace  and  simplicity,  that 
you  would  say  a  prince  should  wear  it  even  so." 

"You  put  me  off,  Prue,"  her  friend  said,  with  a  sort  of  good- 
natured  impatience.  "Why,  I  was  showing  you  what  nice- 
lings  and  delicates  my  father  was  bringing,  and  what  I  had 
thought  to  say  was  this :  that  he  may  have  tliis  for  one,  and 
that  for  the  other,  and  many  a  one  proud  to  be  remembered 
(as  I  shall  be  if  he  thinks  of  me),  but  this  that  I  know  he  is 
bringing  for  little  Bess  Hall  is  something  worth  all  of  these, 
for  it  is  nothing  less  than  the  whole  love  of  his  heart.  Nay, 
but  I  swear  it;  there  is  not  a  human  creature  in  the  world  to 
compare  with  her  in  his  eyes ;  she  is  the  pearl  that  he  wears  in 
his  heart  of  hearts.  If  it  were  London  town  she  wanted,  and 
he  could  give  it  to  her,  that  is  what  he  would  bring  for  her." 

"What!  are  you  jealous  of  her  too?"  said  Prudence,  with 
her  placid  smile. 

"By  yea  and  nay,  sweet  Puritan,  if  that  will  content  you,  I 
declare  it  is  not  so,"  was  the  quick  answer.  "Why,  Bess  is 
my  ally !  We  are  in  league,  I  tell  you ;  we  will  have  a  tussle 
with  the  enemy  ere  long;  and,  by  my  life,  I  think  I  know  that 
that  will  put  goodman-wiseman's  nose  awry!" 

At  this  moment  the  secret  confabulation  of  these  two  friends 
was  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  broken  in  upon  by  a  message 
from  without.  Sometliing  white  came  fluttering  through  the 
open  casement,  and  fell,  not  quite  into  Judith's  lap,  which  was 
probably  its  intended  destination,  but  down  toward  her  feet. 
She  stooped  and  picked  it  up ;  it  was  a  letter,  addressed  to  her, 
and  tied  round  with  a  bit  of  rose-red  silk  ribbon  that  was  neat- 
ly formed  into  a  true-lover's  knot. 


23  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  PLANTING  OP  THE  CHARM. 

The"  embarrassment  that  ensued — on  lier  part  only,  for  the 
pale  and  gentle  face  of  her  fi'iend  betrayed  not  even  so  much 
as  surprise — was  due  to  several  causes.  Judith  could  neither 
read  nor  write.  In  her  earlier  years  she  had  been  a  somewhat 
delicate  child,  and  had  consequently  been  excused  from  the  or- 
dinary tuition,  slight  as  that  usually  was  in  the  case  of  girls; 
but  when,  later  on,  she  grew  into  quite  firm  and  robust  health, 
in  her  willfulness  and  pride  and  petulance  she  refused  to  re- 
transform  herself  into  a  child  and  submit  to  be  taught  children's 
lessons.  Moreover,  she  had  an  acute  and  alert  brain ;  and  she 
had  a  hundred  reasons  ready  to  show  that  what  was  in  reality 
a  mere  waywardness  on  her  part  was  the  most  wise  and  natural 
thing  in  the  world ;  while  her  father,  wlio  had  a  habitual  and 
great  tolerance  for  everything  and  everybody  that  came  with- 
in his  reach,  laughed  with  her  rather  than  at  her,  and  said  she 
should  do  very  well  without  book-learning  so  long  as  those 
pink  roses  shone  in  her  cheeks.  But  she  had  one  reason  that 
was  not  merely  an  excuse.  Most  of  the  printed  matter  that 
reached  the  liouse  was  brought  thither  by  this  or  that  curate,  or 
by  this  or  that  famous  preacher,  who,  in  going  through  the 
country,  was  sure  of  an  eager  and  respectful  welcome  at  New 
Place ;  and  perhaps  it  was  not  kindly  nor  civilly  done  of  them 
— though  it  may  have  been  regarded  as  a  matter  of  conscience 
— that  they  should  carry  thither  and  read  aloud,  amongst  other 
things,  the  fierce  denunciations  of  stage-plays  and  stage-players 
which  were  common  in  the  polemical  and  puritanical  literature 
of  the  day.  Right  or  Avrong,  Judith  resented  this  with  a  vehe- 
ment indignation ;  and  she  put  a  ban  upon  all  books,  judging 
by  what  she  had  heard  read  out  of  some ;  nay,  one  day  she  had 
come  into  the  house  and  found  her  elder  sister,  Avho  was  not 
then  married,  greatly  distressed,  and  even  in  the  bitterness  of 
tears;  and  when  she  discovered  that  the  cause  of  this  was  a 
pamphlet  that  had  been  given  to  Susanna,  in  which  not  only 


THE  PLANTING  OF  THE   CHARM.  23 

were  the  heinous  wickednesses  of  plays  and  players  denounced, 
but  also  her  own  father  named  by  his  proper  name,  Judith, 
with  hot  cheeks  and  flashing  eyes,  snatched  the  pamphlet  from 
her  sister's  hand  and  forthwith  sent  it  flying  through  the  open 
window  into  the  mud  without,  notwithstanding  that  books  and 
pamphlets  were  scarce  and  valuable  things,  and  that  this  one 
had  been  lent.  And  when  she  discov^ered  that  this  piece  of 
writing  had  been  brought  to  the  house  by  the  pious  and  learned 
Walter  Blaise — a  youthful  divine  he  was  who  had  a  small  liv- 
ing some  few  miles  from  Stratford,  but  who  lived  in  the  town, 
and  was  one  of  the  most  eager  and  disputatious  of  the  Puri- 
tanical preachers  there— it  in  no  way  mitigated  her  wrath  that 
this  worthy  Master  Blaise  was  regarded  by  many,  and  even 
openly  spoken  of,  as  a  suitor  for  her  own  hand. 

"God  mend  me,"  said  she,  in  her  anger  (and  greatly  to  the 
distress  of  the  mild-spoken  Prudence),  "  but 'tis  a  strange  way 
of  paying  court  to  a  young  woman  to  bring  into  the  house 
abuse  of  her  own  father !  Sir  Parson  may  go  hang,  for  me !" 
And  for  many  a  day  she  would  have  nothing  to  say  to  him; 
and  steeled  and  hardened  her  heart  not  only  against  him,  but 
against  the  doctrines  and  ways  of  conduct  that  he  so  zealously 
advocated;  and  she  would  not  come  in  to  evening  prayers 
when  he  happened  to  be  present ;  and  wild  horses  would  not 
have  dragged  her  to  the  parish  church  on  the  Sunday  after- 
noon that  it  was  his  turn  to  deliver  the  fortnightly  lectui-e 
there.  However,  these  things  abated  in  time.  Master  Walter 
Blaise  was  a  civil-spoken  and  an  earnest  and  sincere  young 
man,  and  Prudence  Shawe  was  the  gentle  intermediary.  Ju- 
dith suffered  his  presence,  and  that  was  about  all  as  yet;  but 
she  would  not  look  the  way  of  printed  books.  And  Avhen 
Prudence  tried  to  entice  her  into  a  study  of  the  mere  rudiments 
of  reading  and  writing,  she  would  refuse  peremptorily,  and 
say,  with  a  laugh,  that,  could  she  read,  the  first  thing  she 
should  read  would  be  plays,  which,  as  sweet  cousin  Prue  was 
aware,  were  full  of  tribulation  and  anguish,  and  fit  only  for  the 
foolish  Galatians  of  the  world,  the  children  of  darkness  and 
the  devil.  But  this  obstinacy  did  not  pi'event  her  overcoming 
her  dear  cousin  Prue's  scruples,  and  getting  her  to  read  aloud 
to  her  in  the  privacy  of  their  secret  haunts  tliis  or  the  other 
fragment  of  a  play,  when  that  she  had  adroitly  purloined  a 


24  JUDITH   SHAKESPEARE. 

manuscript  from  the  summer-house  in  New  Place;  and  in  this 
surreptitious  manner  she  had  acquired  a  knowledge  of  what 
was  going  on  at  the  Globe  and  the  Blackfriars  theatres  in  Lon- 
don, which,  had  they  but  guessed  of  it,  would  have  considerably- 
astounded  her  mother,  her  sister,  and  good  Parson  Blaise  as  well. 
In  more  delicate  matters  still,  Prudence  was  her  confidante, 
her  intermediary,  and  amanuensis ;  and  ordinarily  this  caused 
her  no  embarrassment,  for  she  wished  for  no  secrets  with  any 
of  human  kind.  But  in  one  direction  she  had  formed  certain 
suspicions;  and  so  it  was  that  on  this  occasion,  when  she  stoop- 
ed down  and  picked  up  the  letter  that  had  been  so  deftly  thrown 
in  at  the  casement,  her  face  flushed  somewhat. 

"I  know  from  whom  it  comes,"  said  she,  and  she  seemed 
inclined  to  put  it  into  the  little  wallet  of  blue  satin  that  hung 
at  her  side. 

Then  she  glanced  at  Prudence's  eyes.  There  was  nothing 
there  in  the  least  approaching  displeasure  or  pique,  only  a 
quiet  amusement. 

"It  was  cleverly  done,"  said  Prudence,  and  she  raised  her 
head  cautiously  and  peeped  through  one  of  the  small  panes  of 
pale  green  glass.  But  the  twilight  had  sunk  into  dusk,  and 
any  one  outside  could  easily  have  made  his  escape  unperceived 
through  the  labyrinth  of  barns  and  out-houses. 

Judith  glanced  at  the  handwriting  again,  and  said,  with  an 
affectation  of  carelessness : 

"There  be  those  who  have  plenty  of  time,  surely,  for  show- 
ing the  wonders  of  their  skill.  Look  at  the  twisting  and  turn- 
ing and  lattice-work  of  it — truly  he  is  a  most  notable  clerk ;  I 
would  he  spent  the  daylight  to  better  purpose.  Eead  it  for  me, 
sweet  Prue." 

She  would  have  handed  the  letter — with  much  studied  indif- 
ference of  look  and  manner — to  her  friend,  but  that  Prudence 
gently  refused  it. 

" 'Tis  you  must  undo  the  string;  you  know  not  what  may 
be  inside." 

So  Judith  herself  opened  the  letter,  which  contained  merely 
a  sprig  of  rosemary,  along  with  some  lines  written  in  a  most; 
ornate  caligraphy. 

"What  does  he  say  ?"  she  asked,  but  without  any  apparent 
intex'est,  as  she  gave  the  open  letter  to  her  companion. 


THE  PLANTING  OF  THE  CHARM.  25 

Prudence  took  the  letter  and  read  aloud : 

"  Rosemary  is  for  remembrance 
Between  lis  day  and  night  ; 
Wishing  that  I  might  always  have 
.You  present  in  my  sight. 

This  from  your  true  ivell-ivisher,  and  one  that  ivould  he 
your  loving  servant  unto  death.  T.  Q." 

"  The  idle  boy !"  she  said,  and  again  she  directed  a  quick  and 
penetrating  look  of  inquiry  to  her  friend's  face.  But  Prudence 
was  merely  regarding  the  elaborate  handwriting.  There  was 
no  trace  of  wounded  pride  or  anything  of  the  kind  in  her  eyes. 
Nay,  she  looked  up  and  said,  with  a  smile, 

"For  one  that  can  wrestle  so  well,  and  play  at  foot-ball,  and 
throw  the  sledge  as  they  say  he  can,  he  is  master  of  a  most  del- 
icate handwriting." 

"  But  the  rosemary,  Prue!"  Judith  exclaimed,  suddenly,  and 
she  groped  about  at  her  feet  until  she  had  found  it.  "  Why, 
now,  look  there,  was  ever  anything  so  fortunate  ?  Truly  I  had 
forgotten  all  about  rosemary,  and  my  reverend  wizard,  and 
the  charm  that  is  to  be  buried  to-night;  and  you  know  not 
a  word  of  the  story.  Shall  I  tell  you,  sweet  mouse  ?  Is  there 
time  before  the  moon  appears  over  the  roof  of  the  church  ? — for 
there  I  am  summoned  to  fearful  deeds.  Why,  Prue,  you  look 
as  frightened  as  if  a  ghost  had  come  into  the  room— you  your- 
self are  like  a  ghost  now  in  the  dusk— or  is  it  the  coming  moon- 
light that  is  making  you  so  pale  ?" 

"^I  had  thought  that  better  counsels  would  have  prevailed 
with  you,  Judith,"  she  said,  anxiously.  "I  knew  not  you 
had  gone  to  see  the  man,  and  I  reproach  myself  that  I  have 
been  an  agent  in  the  matter." 

"A  mouth-piece  only,  sweet  Prue!— a  mere  harmless,  inno- 
cent whistle  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  tune.  And  the 
business  was  not  so  dreadful  either;  there  was  no  caldron,  nor 
playing  with  snakes  and  newts,  no,  nor  whining  for  money, 
which  I  expected  most;  but  a  most  civil  and  courteous  wizard, 
a  most  town-bred  wizard  as  ever  the  sun  set  eye  on,  that  called 
me  '  gracious  lady'  every  other  moment,  and  would  not  take  a 
penny  for  his  pains.  Marry,  if  all  the  powers  of  evil  be  as 
well-behaved,  I  shall  have  less  fear  of  them ;  for  a  more  civil- 


26  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

spoken  gentleman  I  have  never  encountered ;  and  '  sweet  lady' 
it  Avas,  and  'gracious  lady,'  and  a  voice  like  the  voice  of  my 
lord  bishop ;  and  the  assurance  that  the  planets  and  the  stars 
were  holding  me  in  their  kindest  protection;  and  a  promise  of 
a  ghost  husband  that  is  to  appear  that  I  m'ay  judge  whether  I 
like  him  or  like  him  not ;  and  all  this  and  more^and  he  would 
kiss  my  hand,  and  so  farewell,  and  the  reverend  magician 
makes  his  obeisance  and  vanishes,  and  I  am  not  a  penny  the 
poorer,  but  only  the  richer  because  of  my  charm!  There,  I 
will  show  it  to  you,  dear  mouse." 

After  a  little  search  she  found  the  tiny  document;  and  Pru- 
dence Shawe  glanced  over  it. 

"  Judith !  Judith !"  said  she,  almost  in  despair,  "  I  know  not 
whither  your  willfulness  will  carry  you.  But  tell  me  what 
happened.  How  came  you  by  this  paper  ?  And  what  ghost 
husband  do  you  speak  of  ?" 

Then  Judith  related,  with  much  circumstantiality,  what  had 
occurred  that  morning;  not  toning  it  down  in  the  least,  but 
rather  exaggerating  here  and  there ;  for  she  was  merry-heart- 
ed, and  she  liked  to  see  the  sweet  Puritan  face  grow  more  and 
more  concerned.  Moreover,  the  dull  gray  light  outside,  instead 
of  deepening  into  dark,  appeared  to  be  becoming  a  trifle  clear- 
er, so  that  doubtless  the  moon  was  declaring  itself  somewhere ; 
and  she  was  looking  forward,  when  the  time  came,  to  securing 
Prudence's  company  as  far  as  the  cKurch-yard,  if  her  powers  of 
persuasion  were  equal  to  that. 

"But  you  will  not  go,  darling  Judith,"  said  Prudence,  in  ac- 
cents of  pathetic  entreaty.  ' '  You  know  the  sin  of  dealing 
with  such  ungodly  practices — nay,  and  the  danger  too,  for  you 
would  of  your  own  free-will  seek  a  meeting  with  unholy  things, 
whereas  I  have  been  told  that  not  so  long  ago  they  used  in 
places  to  carry  a  pan  of  frankincense  round  the  house  each 
night  to  keep  away  witchcraft  from  them  as  they  slept.  I  be- 
seech you,  deai^est  Judith,  give  me  the  paper,  and  I  will  burn  it !" 

"Nay,  nay,  it  is  but  an  idle  tale,  a  jest;  I  trust  it  not,"  said 
her  friend  to  re-assure  her.  "Be  not  afraid,  sweet  Prue. 
Those  people  who  go  about  compelling  the  planets  and  sum- 
moning spirits  and  the  like  have  lesser  power  than  the  vil- 
lage folk  imagine,  else  would  their  own  affairs  thrive  better 
than  they  seem  to  do. " 


THE  PLANTING  OF  THE  CHAKM.  27 

"  Then  give  me  the  paper;  let  me  burn  it,  Judith!" 

"Nay,  nay,  mouse,"  said  she,  withholding  it;  and  then  she 
added,  with  a  sort  of  grave  merriment  or  mischief  in  her  face: 
"Whether  the  thing  be  aught  or  naught,  sure  I  can  not  treat 
so  ill  my  courteous  wizard.  He  was  no  goose-herd,  I  tell 
you,  but  a  most  proper  and  learned  man ;  and  he  must  have 
the  chance  of  working  the  wonders  he  foretold.  Come,  now, 
think  of  it  with  reason,  dear  Prue.  If  there  be  no  power  in 
the  charm,  if  I  go  to  Shottery  for  my  morning  walk  and  find 
no  one  in  the  lane,  who  is  harmed  ?  Why,  no  one ;  and  Gi*and- 
mother  Hathaway  is  pleased,  and  will  show  me  how  her  garden 
is  growing.  Then,  on  the  other  hand,  should  the  charm  work, 
should  there  be  some  one  there,  what  evil  if  I  regard  him  as  I 
pass  from  the  other  side  of  the  way  ?  Is  it  such  a  wonder  that 
one  should  meet  a  stranger  on  the  Bidford  road  ?  And  what 
more  ?  Man  or  ghost,  he  can  not  make  me  marry  him  if  I  will 
not.  He  can  not  make  me  speak  to  him  if  I  will  not.  And  if 
he  would  put  a  hand  on  me,  I  reckon  Eoderigo  would  speedily 
have  him  by  the  throat,  as  I  hope  he  may  some  day  have  good- 
man  Matthew." 

"But,  Judith,  such  things  are  unlawful  and  forbidden—" 

"To  you,  sweet  saint — to  you,"  said  the  other,  with  mucli 
good-humor.  "But  I  have  not  learned  to  put  aside  childish 
things  as  yet;  and  tbis  is  only  a  jest,  good  Prue;  and  you,  tbat 
are  so  faithful  to  your  word,  even  in  the  smallest  trifle,  would 
not  have  me  break  my  promise  to  my  gentle  wizard  ?  '  Gracious 
lady,'  he  says,  and  'sweet  lady,'  as  if  I  were  a  dame  of  the 
court;  it  were  unmannerly  of  me  not  to  grant  him  tliis  small 
demand — " 

"I  wish  I  had  misread  the  letter,"  said  Prudence,  so  occupied 
with  her  own  fears  that  she  scarcely  knew  what  to  do. 

"  What !"  exclaimed  her  friend,  in  tones  of  raillery;  "you 
would  have  deceived  me?  Is  this  your  honesty,  your  single- 
ness of  heart,  sweet  Puritan  ?  You  would  have  sent  me  on 
some  fool's  errand,  would  you?" 

"And  if  it  were  to  be  known  you  had  gone  out  to  meet  this 
conjurer,  Judith,  what  would  your  mother  and  sister  say  ? — 
and  your  father?" 

"  My  mother  and  sister — hum !"  was  the  demure  reply.  "If 
lie  had  but  come  in  the  garb  of  a  preacher,  with  a  Bible  under 


28  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

one  arm  and  a  prayer-book  under  the  other,  I  doubt  not  that 
he  would  have  been  welcome  enough  at  New  Place — ay,  and 
everythmg  in  the  house  set  before  him,  and  a  Flanders  jug  full 
of  Quiney's  best  claret  withal  to  cheer  the  good  man.     But 
when  you  speak  of  my  father,  dear  Prue,  there  you  are  wide 
of  the  mark — wide,  wide  of  the  mark ;  for  the  wizard  is  just 
such  an  one  as  he  would  be  anxious  to  know  and  see  for  him- 
self.    Indeed,  if  my  mother  and  Susan  would  have  the  house 
filled  with  preachers,  my  father  would  rather  seek  his  com- 
pany from  any  strange  kind  of  vagrant  cattle  you  could  find 
on  the  road — ballad-singers,  strolling  players,  peddlers,  and  the 
like;  and  you  should  see  him  when  some  ancient  harper  in  his 
coat  of  green  comes  near  the  town — nay,  the  constable  shall 
not  interfere  with  him,  license  or  no  license — my  father  must 
needs  entertain  him  in  the  garden ;  and  he  will  sit  and  talk  to 
the  old  man ;  and  the  best  in  the  house  must  be  brought  out 
for  him ;  and  whether  he  try  his  palsied  fingers  on  the  strings, 
or  perchance  attempt  a  verse  of  '  Pastime  with  good  company' 
with  his  quavering  old  voice,  that  is  according  to  liis  own  good 
will  and  pleasure;  nothing  is  demanded  of  him  but  that  he 
have  good  cheer,  and  plenty  of  it,  and  go  on  his  way  the  mer- 
rier, with  a  groat  or  two  in  his  pouch.     Nay,  I  mind  me,  when 
Susan  was  remonstrating  with  my  father  about  such  things, 
and  bidding  him   have  some  regard  for  the  family  name — 
'  What  V  says  he,  laughing ;  '  set  you  up.  Madam  Pride !     Know 
you  not,  then,  whence  comes  our  name?     And  yet  'tis  plain 
enough.     Shacks,  these  are  but  vagrant,  idle,  useless  fellows; 
and  then  we  come  to  pere,  that  is,  an  equal  and  companion. 
There  you  have  it  complete — Shackspere,  the  companion  of 
strollers  and  vagabonds,  of  worthless  and  idle  fellows.     What 
say  you,  Madam  Pride?'     And,  indeed,  poor  Susan  was  sorely 
displeased,  insomuch  that  I  said,  '  But  the  spear  in  the  coat  of 
arms,  father — how  came  we  by  that  V    '  Why,  there,  now,'  says 
he,  '  you  see  how  regardless  the  heralds  are  of  the  King's  Eng- 
lish,    I  warrant  me  they  would  give  a  ship  to  Shipston  and  a 
hen  to  Enstone.'     Indeed,  he  will  jest  you  out  of  anything. 
When  your  bi'other  would  have  left  the  Town  Council,  Prue — " 
But  here  she  seemed  suddenly  to  recollect  herself.     She  rose 
quickly,  thrust  open  the  casement  still  wider,  and  put  out  her 
head  to  discover  whereabouts  the  moon  was :  and  when  she 


THE  PLANTING  OF  THE  CHARM.  29 

withdrew  her  head  again  there  was  mischief  and  a  spice  of  ex- 
citement in  her  face. 

' '  No  more  talking  and  gossip  now,  Prue ;  the  time  has 
arrived  for  fearful  deeds." 

Prudence  put  her  small  white  hand  on  her  friend's  arm. 

"Stay,  Judith.  Be  guided — for  the  love  of  me  be  guided, 
sweetheart !  You  know  not  what  you  do.  The  profaning  of 
sacred  places  will  bring  a  punishment." 

' '  Profaning,  say  you,  sweet  mouse  ?  Is  it  anything  worse 
than  the  children  playing  tick  round  the  grave-stones ;  or  even, 
when  no  one  is  looking,  having  a  game  of  King-by-your-leave?" 

"It  is  late,  Judith.  It  must  be  nine  o'clock.  It  is  not 
seemly  that  a  young  maiden  should  be  out-of-doors  alone  at 
such  an  hour  of  the  night." 

"Marry,  that  say  I,"  was  the  light  answer.  "And  the  bet- 
ter reason  that  you  should  come  with  me,  Prue." 

"  I  ?"  said  Prudence,  in  affright. 

"Wherefore  not,  then  ?  Nay,  but  you  shall  suffer  no  harm 
through  the  witchery,  sweet  mouse;  I  ask  your  company  no 
further  than  the  little  swing-gate.  One  minute  there,  and  I 
shall  be  back  with  you.  Come,  now,  for  your  friend's  sake; 
get  your  hood  and  your  muffler,  dear  Prue,  and  no  one  shall 
know  either  of  us  from  the  witch  of  Endor,  so  quickly  shall 
we  be  there  and  back." 

Still  she  hesitated. 

"If  your  mother  were  to  know,  Judith — " 

"To  know  what,  sweetheart?  That  you  walked  with  nje  as 
far  as  the  church  and  back  again  ?  Why,  on  such  a  fine  and 
summer-like  night  I  dare  be  sworn,  now,  that  half  the  good 
folk  of  Stratford  are  abroad ;  and  it  is  no  such  journey  into 
a  far  country  that  we  should  take  one  of  the  maids  with  us. 
Nay,  come,  sweet  Prue !  We  shall  have  a  merry  ride  to-mor- 
row ;  to-night  for  your  friendship's  sake  you  must  do  me  this 
small  service." 

Prudence  did  not  answer,  but  somewhat  thoughtfully,  and 
even  reluctantly,  she  went  to  a  small  cupboard  of  boxes  that 
stood  in  the  corner  of  the  apartment,  and  brought  forth  some 
articles  of  attire  which  (although  she  might  not  have  confessed 
it)  were  for  the  better  disguising  of  herself,  .seeing  that  the  night 
was  fine  and  warm.     And  then  Judith,  having  also  drawn  a 

2 


30  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

muffler  loosely  round  her  neck  and  the  lower  half  of  her  face, 
was  ready  to  go,  and  was  gone,  in  fact,  as  far  as  the  door, 
when  she  suddenly  said : 

"Why,  now,  I  had  nearly  forgot  the  rosemary,  and  without 
that  the  charm  is  naught.     Did  I  leave  it  on  the  window-shelf  ?" 

She  went  back  and  found  it,  and  this  time  she  took  the  pre- 
caution of  folding  it  within  the  piece  of  paper  that  she  was  to 
bury  in  the  chui'ch-yard. 

"  Is  it  fair,  dear  Judith  ?"  Prudence  said,  reproachfully,  be- 
fore she  op&ned  the  door.  "Is  it  right  that  you  should  take 
the  bit  of  rosemary  sent  you  by  one  lover,  and  use  it  as  a  charm 
to  bi'ing  another  ?" 

"Nay,  why  should  you  concern  yourself,  sweet  mouse?" 
said  Judith,  with  a  quick  glance,  but  indeed  at  this  end  of  the 
room  it  was  too  dark  for  her  to  see  anything.  "My  lover, 
say  you  ?  Let  that  be  as  the  future  may  show.  In  the  mean 
time  I  am  pledged  to  no  one,  nor  anxious  that  I  should  be  so. 
And  a  scrap  of  rosemary,  now,  what  is  it  ?  But  listen  to  this, 
dear  Prue:  if  it  help  to  show  me  the  man  I  shall  marry — if 
there  be  aught  in  this  magic — will  it  not  be  better  for  him  that 
sent  the.rosemaiy  that  we  should  be  aware  of  what  is  in  store 
for  us  ?" 

"I  know  not— I  scarcely  ever  know — whether  you  are  in 
jest  or  in  earnest,  Judith,"  her  friend  said. 

"Why,  then,  I  am  partly  in  starched  cambric,  good  mouse, 
if  you  must  know,  and  partly  in  damask,  and  partly  in  taffeta 
of  popinjay  blue.  But  come,  now,  let  us  be  going.  The  aw- 
ful hour  approaches,  Prue.  Do  you  not  tremble,  like  Faustus 
in  the  cell  ?     What  was't  he  said  ? 

It  strikes  ;  it  strikes.     Now,  body,  turn  to  air ! 

Come  along,  sweet  Prue." 

But  she  was  silent  as  they  left.  Indeed,  they  went  down  the 
dark  little  staircase  and  out  at  the  front  door  with  as  little 
noise  as  might  be.  Judith  had  not  been  mistaken:  the  fine, 
clear,  warm  evening  had  brought  out  many  people;  and  they 
were  either  quietly  walking  home  or  standing  in  dusky  little 
groups  at  the  street  corners  talking  to  each  other ;  whilst  here 
and  there  came  a  laugh  from  a  ruddy-windowed  ale-house ;  and 
here  and  there  a  hushed  sound  of  singing,  where  a  casement 


THE   PLANTING  OF  THE  CHARM.  31 

had  been  left  a  bit  open,  told  that  the  family  within  were  at 
their  devotional  exercises  for  the  night.  The  half-moon  was 
now  clear  and  silvery  in  the  heavens.  As  they  passed  under 
the  massive  structure  of  the  Guild  Chapel  the  upper  portions  of 
the  tall  windows  had  a  i^ale  greenish  glow  shining  through 
them  that  made  the  surrounding  shadows  look  all  the  more 
solemn.  Whether  it  was  that  their  mufflers  effectually  pre- 
vented their  being  recognized,  or  whether  it  was  that  none  of 
their  friends  happened  to  be  abroad,  they  passed  along  without 
attracting  notice  from  any  one,  nor  was  a  word  spoken  between 
themselves  for  some  time. 

But  when  they  drew  near  to  the  church,  the  vast  bulk  of 
which,  towering  above  the  trees  around,  seemed  almost  black 
against  the  palely  clear  sky,  the  faithful  Prudence  made  bold 
to  put  in  a  final  word  of  remonstrance  and  dissuasion. 

"It  is  wickedness  and  folly,  Judith.  Naught  can  come  of 
such  work,"  she  said. 

"  Then  let  naught  come  of  it,  and  what  harm  is  done  ?"  her 
companion  said,  gayly.  "Dear  mouse,  are  you  so  timox'ous  ? 
Nay,  but  you  shall  not  come  within  the  little  gate ;  you  shall 
remain  without.  And  if  the  spirits  come  and  snatch  me,  as 
they  snatched  off  Doctor  Faustus,  you  shall  see  all  the  pageant, 
and  not  a  penny  to  pay.     What  was  it  in  the  paper  ? 

'  I'inch  him  black,  and  pinch  him  blue, 
Thai  see/cs  to  steal  a  lover  true.'' 

Did  it  not  run  so  ?  But  they  can  not  pinch  you,  dear  heart ;  so 
stand  here  now,  and  hush  I — pray  you  do  not  scream  if  you  see 
them  whip  me  off  in  a  cloud  of  fire — and  I  shall  be  with  you 
again  in  a  minute." 

She  passed  through  the  little  swinging  gate  and  entered  the 
church-yard,  casting  therewith  a  quick  glance  around.  Appar- 
ently no  one  was  witliin  sight  of  her,  either  among  the  gray 
stones  or  under  the  black-stemmed  elms  by  the  river;  but  there 
were  people  not  far  ofi',  for  she  could  hear  their  voices — doubt- 
less they  were  going  home  through  the  meadows  on  the  other 
side  of  the  stream.  She  looked  but  once  in  that  direction.  Tlie 
open  country  was  lying  pale  and  clear  in  the  white  light ;  and 
under  the  wide  branches  of  the  elms  one  or  two  bats  were  si- 
lently darting  to  and  fro ;  but  she  could  not  see  the  people,  and 
she  took  it  for  granted  that  no  one  could  now  observe  what 


32  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

she  was  about.  So  she  left  the  path,  made  her  way  through  the 
noiseless  gi^ass,  and  reached  the  small  yew-tree  standing  there 
among  the  grave-stones.  The  light  was  clear  enough  to  allow 
her  to  open  the  package  and  make  sure  that  the  sprig  of  rose- 
mary was  within ;  then  she  rapidly,  with  her  bare  hand,  stoop- 
ed down  and  scooped  a  little  of  the  earth  away ;  she  imbedded 
the  packet  there,  repeating  meanwhile  the  magic  words ;  she  re- 
placed the  earth,  and  brushed  the  long  grass  over  it,  so  that, 
indeed,  as  well  as  she  could  make  out,  the  spot  looked  as  if  it 
had  not  been  disturbed  in  any  manner.  And  then,  with  a 
quick  look  toward  the  roof  of  the  church  to  satisfy  herself  that 
all  the  conditions  had  been  fulfilled,  she  got  swiftly  back  to 
the  path  again,  and  so  to  the  little  gate,  passing  through  the 
church-yard  like  a  ghost. 

"  The  deed  is  done,  good  Prue,"  said  she,  gayly,  but  in  a 
tragic  whisper,  as  she  linked  her  arm  within  the  arm  of  her 
friend  and  set  out  homeward.  "Now  are  the  dark  powers  of 
the  earth  at  league  to  raise  me  up — what  think  you,  sweet- 
heart ? — such  a  gallant  as  the  world  ne'er  saw !  Ah !  now 
when  you  see  him  come  riding  in  from  Shottery,  will  not  the 
town  stare  ?  None  of  your  logget-playing,  tavern-jesting, 
come-kiss-me-Moll  lovers,  but  a  true-sworn  knight  on  his  white 
war  steed,  in  shining  mail,  with  a  golden  casque  on  his  head 
and  ostrich  feathers,  and  on  his  silver  shield  '  St.  George  and 
England!'" 

"You  are  light-hearted,  Judith,"  said  the  timid  and  gentle- 
voiced  Puritan  by  her  side;  "and  in  truth  there  is  nothing 
that  you  fear.  Well,  I  know  not,  but  it  will  be  in  my  prayers 
that  no  harm  come  of  this  night." 


A  PAGEANT.  33 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A  PAGEANT. 

On  the  morning  after  tlie  arrival  of  Judith's  father  he  was 
out  and  abroad  Avith  his  bailiff  at  an  early  hour,  so  that  she  had 
no  chance  of  speaking  to  him ;  and  when  he  returned  to  New 
Place  he  went  into  the  summer-house  in  the  orchard,  where  it 
was  the  general  habit  and  custom  to  leave  him  undisturbed. 
And  yet  she  only  wished  to  ask  permission  to  take  the  mastiff 
with  her  as  far  as  Shottery;  and  so,  when  she  had  j^erformed 
her  share  of  tlie  domestic  duties,  and  got  hei'self  ready,  she  went 
out  and  through  the  back  court  and  into  the  garden,  thinking 
that  he  would  not  mind  so  brief  an  interruption. 

It  was  a  fresh  and  pleasant  morning,  for  there  had  been 
some  rain  in  the  night,  and  now  there  was  a  slight  breeze  blow- 
ing from  the  south,  and  the  air  was  sweet  with  the  scent  of  the 
lilac  bushes.  The  sun  lay  warm  on  the  pink  and  white  blos- 
soms of  the  apple-trees  and  on  the  creamy  masses  of  the  cherry ; 
martins  were  skimming  and  shooting  this  way  and  that,  with 
now  and  again  a  rapid  flight  to  the  eaves  of  the  barn ;  the  bees 
hummed  from  flower  to  flower,  and  everywhere  there  Avas  a 
chirping,  and  twittering,  and  clear  singing  of  birds.  The 
world  seemed  full  of  light  and  color,  of  youth,  and  sweet  things, 
and  gladness:  on  such  a  morning  she  had  no  fear  of  a  refusal, 
nor  was  she  much  afraid  to  go  near  the  summer-house  that  the 
family  were  accustomed  to  liold  sacred  from  intrusion. 

But  when  she  passed  into  the  orchard,  and  came  in  sight  of 
it,  there  was  a  sudden  flash  of  anger  in  her  eyes.  She  might 
have  guessed— she  might  have  known.  There,  blocking  up 
the  doorway  of  the  latticed  and  green-painted  tenement,  was 
the  figure  of  goodman  Matthew;  and  the  little  bandy-legged 
pippin-faced  gardener  was  coolly  resting  on  his  spade  while  he 
addressed  his  master  within.  Was  there  ever  (she  asked  hei-- 
self)  such  hardihood,  such  audacity  and  impertinence  ?  And 
then  she  rapidly  bethought  her  that  now  was  a  rare  opportu- 
nity for,putting  in  practice  a  scheme  of  revenge  that  she  had 


34  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

carefully  planned.  It  is  true  that  she  might  have  gone  forward 
and  laid  her  finger  on  Matthew's  arm  (he  was  rather  deaf), 
and  so  have  motioned  him  away.  But  she  was  too  proud  to 
do  that.  She  would  dispossess  and  rout  him  in  another  fash- 
ion.    So  she  turned  and  went  quickly  again  into  the  house. 

Now  at  this  time  Dr.  Hall  was  making  a  round  of  profession- 
al visits  at  some  distance  away  in  the  country ;  and  on  such 
occasions  Susanna  Hall  and  her  little  daughter  generally  came 
to  lodge  at  New  Place,  where  Judith  was  found  to  be  an  eager 
and  assiduous,  if  somewhat  impatient  and  unreasoning,  nurse, 
playmate,  and  music-mistress.  In  fact,  the  young  mother  had 
to  remonstrate  with  her  sister,  and  to  point  out  that,  although 
baby  Elizabeth  was  a  wonder  of  intelligence  and  cleverness — 
indeed,  such  a  wonder  as  had  never  hitherto  been  beheld  in  the 
world — still,  a  child  of  two  years  and  three  months  or  so  could 
not  be  expected  to  learn  everything  all  at  once;  and  that  it  was 
just  as  I'easonable  to  ask  her  to  play  on  the  lute  as  to  imagine 
that  she  could  sit  on  the  back  of  Don  the  mastiff  without  being 
held.  However,  Judith  was  fond  of  the  child,  and  that  in- 
comparable and  astute  small  person  had  a  great  liking  for  her 
aunt  (in  consequence  of  benefits  received),  and  a  ti'ust  in  her 
which  the  wisdom  of  maturer  years  might  have  modified;  and 
so,  whenever  she  chose,  Judith  found  no  difiiculty  in  obtaining 
possession  of  this  precious  charge,  even  the  young  mother 
showing  no  anxiety  when  she  saw  the  two  go  away  together. 

So  it  was  on  this  particular  morning  tliat  Judith  went  and 
got  hold  of  little  Bess  Hall,  and  quickly  smartened  up  her 
costume,  and  carried  her  out  into  the  garden.  Then  she  went 
to  the  barn,  outside  of  which  w^as  the  dog's  kennel ;  she  un- 
clasped the  chain  and  set  free  the  huge,  slow-stepping,  dun-col- 
ored beast,  that  seemed  to  know  as  well  as  any  one  what  was 
going  forward ;  she  affixed  to  his  collar  two  pieces  of  silk  rib- 
bon that  did  very  well  for  reins;  and  then  she  sat  little  Bess 
Hall  on  Don  Roderigo's  back,  and  gave  her  the  reins  to  hold, 
and  so  they  set  out  for  the  summer-house. 

On  that  May  morning  the  wide  and  gracious  realm  of  Eng- 
land— which  to  some  minds,  and  especially  at  that  particular 
season  of  the  year,  seems  the  most  beautiful  country  of  any  in 
the  world — this  rich  and  variegated  England  lay  basking  in  the 
sunlight,  with  all  its  lush  meadows  and  woods  and  hedges  in 


A  PAGEANT.  35 

the  full  and  fresh  luxuriance  of  the  spring ;  and  the  small 
quiet  hamlets  were  busy  in  a  drowsy  and  easy-going  kind  of 
fashion;  and  far  away  around  the  white  coasts  the  blue  sea 
■was  idly  murmuring  in  ;  but  it  may  be  doubted  whether  in  all 
the  length  and  breadth  of  that  fair  land  there  was  any  fairer 
sight  than  this  that  the  wit  of  a  young  woman  had  devised. 
She  herself  was  pleasant  enough  to  look  on  (and  she  was  always 
particularly  attentive  about  her  attire  when  her  father  was  at 
home),  and  now  she  w^as  half  laughing  as  she  thought  of  her 
forthcoming  revenge;  she  had  dressed  her  little  niece  in  her 
prettiest  costume  of  pink  and  white,  and  pink  was  the  color  of 
the  silken  reins ;  while  the  great  slow-footed  Don  bore  his  part  in 
the  pageant  with  a  noble  majesty,  sometimes  looking  up  at 
Judith  as  if  to  ask  whether  he  were  going  in  the  right  direction. 
And  so  the  procession  passed  on  between  the  white-laden  cherry- 
trees  and  the  redder  masses  of  the  apple-blossom;  and  the 
miniatui-e  Ariadne,  sitting  sideways  on  the  back  of  the  great 
beast,  betrayed  no  fear  whatsoever;  while  her  aunt  Judith  held 
her,  walking  by  her,  and  scolding  her  for  that  she  would  not 
sing. 

"Tant  sing.  Aunt  Judith,"  said  she. 

"You  can  sing  well  enough,  you  little  goose,  if  you  try," 
said  her  aunt,  with  the  unreasoning  impatience  of  an  unmar- 
ried young  woman.  "What  is  the  use  of  your  going  hunting 
without  a  hunting  song  ?     Come  along,  now : 

'  Tlie  hunt  in  up,  tJie  hunt  is  up, 
And  it  is  well-nigh  day ;'' — 

try  it,  Bess !" 

"Hunt  is  up,  hunt  is  up,"  said  the  small  rider;  but  she 
■was  occupied  with  the  reins,  and  clearly  did  not  want  to  be 
bothered. 

"  No,  no,  that  is  not  singing,  little  goose.     Why,  sing  it  like 

this,  now : 

'  The  hunt  is  up,  the  hunt  is  up, 
And  it  is  weU-tiif/h  day  ; 
And  Harry  our  kiny  is  yone  hunting 
To  briny  his  deer  to  bay  P  " 

However,  the  music  lesson  came  to  an  abrupt  end.  They  had 
by  this  time  almost  reached  the  summer-house.  Saturnine 
Matthew  gardener,  who  still  stood  there,  blocking  up  the  door- 


36  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

way,  had  not  heard  them  approach,  but  his  master  within  had. 
The  next  instant  goodman  Matthew  suddenly  found  himself 
discarded,  dismissed,  and  treated,  indeed,  as  if  he  were  simply 
non-existent  in  the  world ;  for  Judith's  father,  having  paused 
for  a  moment  to  regard  from  the  doorway  the  pretty  pageant 
that  had  been  arranged  for  him  (and  his  face  lit  up,  as  it  were, 
with  pleasure  at  the  sight),  was  the  next  minute  down  beside 
his  little  granddaughter,  with  one  knee  on  the  ground,  so  that 
he  was  just  on  a  level  with  her  outstretched  hands. 

' '  What,  Bess  ?"  he  said,  as  he  caught  her  by  both  hands  and 
feet.  "You  imp,  you  inch,  you  elfin  queen,  you  ! — would  you 
go  a-hunting,  then?" 

"Send  away  Don — me  want  to  ride  the  high  horse,"  said  the 
small  Bess,  who  had  her  own  ideas  as  to  what  was  most  com- 
fortable, and  also  secure. 

"And  so  you  shall,  you  sprite,  you  Ariel,  you  moonlight 
wonder!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  perched  her  on  his  shoulder 
and  rose  to  his  feet  again.  "The  high  horse,  truly;  indeed, 
you  shall  ride  the  high  horse!  Come,  now,  we  will  go  set 
how  the  King's  mulberry  thrives ;  that  is  the  only  tree  we  have 
that  is  younger  than  yourself,  you  ancient,  you  beldame,  you 
witch  of  Endor,  you  !" 

"Father,"  said  Judith,  seeing  that  he  was  going  away  per- 
fectly regardless  of  anybody  or  anything  except  his  grand- 
daughter, "may  I  take  the  Don  with  me  for  an  hour  or  so  ?" 

"  Whither  away,  wench — whither  ?"  he  asked,  turning  for  a 
moment. 

"To  Shottery,  father." 

"Well,  well,"  said  he,  and  he  turned  again  and  went  off. 

"Come,  Bess,  you  world's  jewel,  you,  you  shall  I'ide  with 
me  to  London  some  day,  and  tell  the  King  how  his  mulberry 
thrives;  that  shall  you,  you  fairy,  you  princess,  you  velvet- 
footed  maidiekin !     To  London,  Bess — to  London !" 

Judith  did  not  stay  to  regard  them  further;  but  she  could 
not  help  casting  a  look  before  she  left  at  goodman  Matthew, 
who  stood  there  discomfited,  dispossessed,  unheeded,  annihila- 
ted, as  it  were.  And  then,  calling  the  dog  after  her,  she  went 
in  by  the  back  court  and  through  the  house  again  (for  Chapel 
Lane  was  in  a  sad  condition  after  the  rain  of  the  night,  and  was 
not  a  pleasant  pathway  even  in  the  best  of  times).     And  she 


IN  A  WOODED  LANE.  37 

wa^  laughing  to  herself  at  Matthew's  discomfiture,  and  she  was 
singing  to  herself  as  she  went  out  by  the  front  door, 

There's  never  a  maid  in  all  the  town, 
But  well  she  knows  that  malCs  come  down. 

And  in  the  street  it  was  ' '  Good-mori*ow  to  you.  Master  Jel- 
leyman ;  the  rain  will  do  good,  will  it  not  ?"  and,  again,  "  Good- 
morrow,  Neighbor  Pike ;  do  you  know  that  my  father  is  come 
home  ?"  and  again,  "Get  you  within  the  doorway,  little  Par- 
sons, else  the  wagon- wheels  will  be  over  thee."  And  then, 
when  she  was  in  the  freedom  of  the  fields,  she  would  talk  blithe- 
ly to  Don  Roderigo,  or  snatch  a  buttercup  here  or  there  from 
among  the  long,  lush,  warm  grass,  or  return  to  her  careless 
singing : 

For  maWs  come  down,  and  malVs  come  down — 
Oh,  well  she  knows  that  mall's  come  down  ! 


CHAPTER  V. 

IN  A  WOODED  LANE. 


Now  it  would  be  extremely  difficult  to  say  with  what  mea- 
sure of  faith  or  skepticism,  of  expectation  or  mere  curiosity,  she 
was  now  proceeding  through  these  meadows  to  the  spot  in- 
dicated to  her  by  the  wizard.  Probably  she  could  not  have  told 
herself,  for  what  was  really  uppermost  in  her  mind  was  a  kind 
of  malicious  desire  to  frighten  her  timid  Puritan  friend  Avith 
the  wildness  of  such  an  adventure.  And  then  she  was  pretty 
safe.  Ostensibly  she  was  going  to  Shottery  to  pay  a  visit  to 
her  grandmother;  to  look  at  the  pansies,  the  wall-flowers,  the 
forget-me-nots  in  the  little  garden,  and  see  how  the  currants 
and  raspberries  were  getting  on.  She  could  hardly  expect  a 
ghost  to  rise  from  the  ground  in  broad  daylight.  And  if  any 
mere  strangers  happened  to  be  coming  along  the  lane  leading 
in  from  the  Bidford  road,  Don  Roderigo  was  a  sufficient  guard- 
ian. On  the  other  hand,  if  there  was  anything  real  and  of 
verity  in  this  witchcraft— which  had  .sought  her,  and  not  she  it 
— was  it  not  possible  that  the  wizard  might  on  one  point  have 
been  mistaken  ?     If  her  future  husband  were  indeed  to  appear, 

2* 


38  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

would  it  not  be  much  more  likely  to  be  Parson  Blaise  or  Tom 
Quiney,  or  young  Jelleyman,  or  one  or  other  of  them  that  she 
knew  in  everyday  life  ?  But  yet  she  said  to  herself — and  there 
was  no  doubt  about  her  absolute  conviction  and  certainty  on 
this  point — that,  even  if  she  were  to  meet  one  of  those  coming 
in  from  Evesham,  not  all  the  magic  and  mystery  and  wizardry 
in  the  world  would  drive  her  to  marry  him  but  of  her  own 
free  good-will  and  choice. 

When  she  had  passed  through  the  meadows  and  got  near  to 
the  scattered  cottages  and  barns  and  orchards  of  the  little  ham- 
let, instead  of  going  forward  to  these,  she  bore  away  to  the  left, 
and  eventually  found  herself  in  a  wide  and  wooded  lane.  She 
was  less  light  of  heart  now;  she  wished  the  place  were  not  so 
still  and  lonely.  It  was  a  pretty  lane,  this;  the  ruddy-gray, 
road  that  wound  between  luxuriant  hedges  and  tall  elms  was 
barred  across  by  alternate  sunlight  and  shadow,  and  every  now 
and  again  she  had  glimpses  of  the  rich  and  fertile  country  ly- 
ing around,  with  distant  hills  showing  an  outline  serrated  by 
trees  along  the  pale,  summer-like  sky.  But  thei*e  was  not  a 
human  being  visible  anywhere,  nor  a  sound  to  be  heard  but 
the  soft  repeated  note  of  the  cuckoo.  She  wished  that  there 
were  some  farm  people  near  at  hand,  or  a  shepherd  lad,  or  any- 
body. She  spoke  to  Roderigo,  and  her  voice  sounded  strange 
— it  sounded  as  if  she  were  afraid  that  some  one  was  listening. 
Nay,  she  began,  quite  unreasonably,  to  be  angry  with  the  wiz- 
ard. What  business  had  he  to  interfere  with  her  affairs,  and 
to  drive  her  on  to  such  foolish  enterprises  ?  What  right  had 
he  to  challenge  her  to  show  that  she  was  not  afraid  ?  She  was 
not  afraid,  she  assured  herself.  She  had  as  good  a  title  to  walk 
along  this  lane  as  any  one  in  Warwickshire.  Only  she  thought 
that  as  soon  as  she  had  got  as  far  as  the  cross  at  the  meeting 
of  the  roads  (this  was  all  that  had  been  demanded  of  her)  she 
would  go  back  to  Stratford  by  the  public  highway  rather  than 
return  by  this  solitary  lane,  for  on  the  public  highway  there 
would  be  farm  servants  and  laden  wains  and  carriers,  and 
such-like  comfortable  and  companionable  objects. 

The  next  minute — she  had  almost  reached  the  cross — her 
heart  bounded  with  an  unreasoning  tremor  of  fear:  she  had 
suddenly  become  aware  that  a  stranger  was  entering  the  lane 
from  the  wide  highway  beyond.     She  had  only  one  glimpse  of 


IN   A  WOODED  LANE.  39 

him,  for  instantly  and  resolutely  she  bent  her  eyes  on  Don 
Roderigo,  and  was  determined  to  keep  them  there  until  this 
person  should  have  passed;  and  yet  that  one  lightning-like 
glimpse  had  told  her  somewhat.  The  stranger  was  young, 
and  of  a  distinguished  bearing  and  presence ;  and  it  certainly 
was  a  singular  and  unusual  thing  that  a  gentleman  (as  he 
seemed  to  be,  although  his  travelling  cloak  concealed  most  of 
his  attire)  should  be  going  afoot  and  unattended.  But  her  only 
concern  was  to  let  him  pass.  Ghost  or  man  as  he  might  be, 
she  kept  her  eyes  on  Roderigo.  And  then,  to  her  increased 
alarm,  she  found  that  the  stranger  was  approaching  her. 

"I  beseech  your  pardon,  lady,"  said  he,  in  a  most  respectful 
voice,  "but  know  you  one  in  this  town  of  the  name  of  Master 
Shakespeare  ?" 

She  certainly  was  startled,  and  even  inwardly  aghast;  but 
she  had  a  brave  will.  She  was  determined  that  nothing  would 
drive  her  either  to  scream  or  to  run  away.  And  indeed  when 
she  looked  up  and  said,  rather  breathlessly,  "There  be  several 
of  the  name,  sir,"  she  was  quickly  assured  that  this  was  no 
ghost  at  all,  but  a  substantial  and  living  and  breathing  young 
man,  tall  and  dark,  of  a  x)leasant  expression  of  face,  though  in 
truth  there  was  nothing  in  those  singularly  black  eyes  of  his 
but  the  most  ordinary  and  matter-of-fact  inquiry. 

"One  Master  William  Shakespeare,"  said  he,  in  answer  to 
her,  "that  is  widely  known." 

"  It  is  my  father,  sir,  you  speak  of,"  said  she,  hastily,  and,  in 
fact,  somewhat  ashamed  of  her  fright. 

At  this  news  he  removed  his  hat  and  made  her  a  gracious 
obeisance,  yet  simply,  and  with  not  too  elaborate  a  courtesy. 

"Since  I  am  so  fortunate,"  said  he,  "may  I  beg  you  to 
direct  me  how  I  shall  find  the  house  when  I  get  to  the  town  ? 
I  have  a  letter  for  him,  as  you  may  see." 

He  took  out  a  letter,  and  held  it  so  that,  if  she  liked,  she 
might  read  the  superscription— "  To  my  loving  good  friend 
Master  William  Shakespeare:  Deliver  tliese."  But  Judith 
merely  glanced  at  the  writing. 

"  'Tis  from  Master  Ben  Jonson — that  you  know  of,  doubtless, 
madam — commending  me  to  your  father.  But  perhaps,"  he 
added,  directing  toward  her  a  curious  timid  look  of  inquiry, 
"  it  were  as  well  that  I  did  not  deliver  it  ?" 


40  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE, 

"  How  so,  sir  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  am  one  that  is  in  misfortune,"  said  he,  simply;  "nay, 
in  peril." 

"Truly  I  am  sorry  for  that,  sir,"  said  she,  regarding  him 
with  frank  eyes  of  sympathy,  for  indeed  there  was  a  kind  of 
sadness  in  his  air,  that  otherwise  was  distinguished  enough, 
and  even  noble.  And  then  she  added:  "But  surely  that  is 
the  greater  reason  you  should  seek  my  father." 

"If  I  dared — if  I  knew,"  he  said,  apparently  to  himself. 
And  then  he  addressed  her:  "  If  I  make  so  bold,  sweet  lady,  as 
to  ask  you  if  your  father  be  of  the  ancient  faith — or  well  dis- 
posed toward  that,  even  if  he  do  not  openly  pi'ofess  it — I  pray 
you  set  it  down  to  my  need  and  hard  circumstances." 

She  did  not  seem  to  understand. 

"I  would  ask  if  he  be  not  at  heart  with  the  Catholic  gentle- 
men that  are  looking  for  better  times — for  indeed  I  have  heard 
it  stated  of  him." 

"  Oh  no,  sir — surely  not,"  said  Judith,  in  some  alarm,  for  she 
knew  quite  enough  about  the  penal  laws  against  priests  and 
recusants,  and  would  not  have  her  father  associated  in  any 
way  with  these,  especially  as  she  was  talking  with  a  sti-anger. 

"Nay,  then,  it  were  better  I  did  not  deliver  the  letter, "said 
the  young  man,  with  just  a  touch  of  hopelessness  in  his  tone. 
"Under  the  protection  of  your  father  I  might  have  had  some- 
what more  of  liberty,  perchance ;  but  I  am  content  to  remain 
as  I  am  until  I  can  get  proofs  that  will  convince  them  in 
authority  of  my  innocence ;  or  mayhap  I  may  get  away  from 
the  country  altogether,  and  to  my  friends  in  Flanders.  If 
they  would  but  set  my  good  friend  Walter  Raleigh  free  from 
the  Tower,  that  also  were  well,  for  he  and  I  might  make  a 
home  for  ourselves  in  another  land.  I  crave  your  pardon 
for  detaining  you,  madam,  and  so  bid  you  farewell." 

He  raised  his  hat  and  made  her  a  most  respectful  obeisance, 
and  was  about  to  withdraw. 

"  Stay,  sir,"  said  she,  scarcely  knowing  what  she  said,  but 
with  trouble  and  anxiety  in  her  gentle  eyes. 

Indeed,  she  was  somewhat  bewildered.  So  sudden  had  been 
the  sliock  of  surprise  that  she  had  forgotten,  or  very  near- 
ly forgotten,  all  about  ghosts  and  wizards,  about  possible  lovers 
or  husbands,  and  only  knew  that  here,  in  actual  fact,  was  a 


IN  A  WOODED   LANE.  41 

stranger — and  a  modest  young  stranger,  too — that  was  in  great 
trouble,  and  yet  was  afraid  to  seek  shelter  and  aid  from  her  fa- 
ther. That  he  had  no  reason  to  be  thus  afraid  she  was  certain 
enough;  and  yet  she  dared  not  assume — she  had  no  reason 
for  believing — that  her  father  was  secretly  inclined  to  favor 
those  that  were  still  hoping  for  the  re-establishment  of  the 
Catholic  faith.  The  fact  was  that  her  father  scarcely  ever 
spoke  of  such  matters.  He  would  listen,  if  he  happened  to 
be  in  the  house,  to  any  theological  discussion  that  might  be 
going  on,  and  he  would  regai'd  this  or  that  minister  or  preach- 
er calmly,  as  if  trying  to  understand  the  man  and  his  opinions ; 
but  he  would  take  no  part  in  the  talk ;  and  when  the  discussion 
became  disputatious,  as  sometimes  happened,  and  the  com- 
batants grew  Avarm  and  took  to  making  hot  assei'tions,  he 
would  rise  and  go  out  idly  into  the  garden,  aiid  look  at  the 
young  apple-trees  or  talk  to  Don  Roderigo.  Indeed,  at  this 
precise  moment,  Judith  was  quite  incapable  of  deciding  for 
herself  which  party  her  father  would  most  likely  be  in  sym- 
pathy with — the  Puritans,  who  were  sore  at  heart  because  of 
the  failure  of  the  Hampton  Court  Conference,  or  the  Catholics, 
who  were  no  less  bitter  on  account  of  the  severity  of  the  penal 
laws — and  a  kind  of  vague  wish  arose  in  her  heart  that  she 
could  ask  Prudence  Shawe  (who  paid  more  attention  to  such 
matters,  and  was,  in  fact,  wrapped  ;ip  in  them)  before  sending 
this  young  man  away  with  his  letter  of  commendation  un- 
opened. 

"Your  brother-in-law,  madam,  Dr.  Hall,"  said  he,  seeing 
that  she  did  not  wish  him  to  leave  on  the  instant,  "  is  well  es- 
teemed by  the  Catholic  gentry,  as  I  hear." 

Judith  did  not  answer  that;  she  had  been  rapidly  consid- 
ering what  she  could  do  for  one  in  distress. 

"By  your  leave,  sir,  I  would  not  have  you  go  away  without 
making  further  inquiry,"  said  she.  "I  will  myself  get  to 
know  how  my  father  is  inclined,  for  indeed  he  never  speaks 
of  such  matters  to  us  ;  and  sure  I  am  that,  whatever  be  his 
opinion,  no  harm  could  come  to  you  through  seeking  liis  friend- 
ship. That  I  am  sure  of.  If  you  ai'e  in  distress,  that  is' 
enough ;  he  will  not  ask  you  whence  you  come ;  nor  has  he 
censure  for  any  one;  and  that  is  a  marvel  in  one  that  is  so 
good  a  man  himself,  that  he  hath  never  a  word  of  blame  for 


42  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

any  one,  neithei'  for  the  highwayman  that  was  taken  red-hand- 
ed, as  it  were,  last  Sunday  near  to  Oxford — 'Why,'  says  my  fa- 
ther,  'if  he  take  not  life,  and  be  a  civil  gentleman,  I  grudge 
him  not  a  purse  or  two' — nor  for  a  lesser  criminal,  my  cousin 
Willie  Hart,  that  but  yesterday  let  the  Portuguese  singing- 
bird  escape  from  its  cage.  'Well,  well,' says  my  father,  'so 
much  the  better,  if  only  it  can  find  food  for  itself.'  Indeed, 
you  need  fear  naught  but  kindness  and  gentleness;  and  sure 
I  am  that  he  would  be  but  ill  pleased  to  know  that  one  coming 
fi'om  his  friend  Benjamin  Jonson  had  been  in  the  neighbor- 
hood and  gone  away  without  having  speech  of  him." 

"But  this  is  no  matter  of  courtesy,  sweet  lady,"  said  he. 
"  It  is  of  a  more  dangerous  cast;  and  I  must  be  wary.  If, 
now,  you  were  inclined  to  do  as  you  say — to  make  some  discreet 
inquiry  as  to  your  good  father's  sentiments — " 

"Not  from  himself,"  said  she,  quickly,  and  with  some  color 
mounting  to  her  cheeks — "  for  he  would  but  laugh  at  my  speak- 
ing of  such  things — but  from  my  gossip  and  neighbor  I  think 
I  could  gain  sufficient  assurance  that  would  set  your  fears  at 
rest." 

"  And  how  should  I  come  to  know  ?"  he  said,  with  some  hesi- 
tation— for  this  looked  much  like  asking  for  another  meeting. 

But  Judith  was  frank  enough.  If  she  meant  to  confer  a 
kindness,  she  did  not  stay  to  be  too  scrupulous  about  the  man- 
ner of  doing  it. 

"  If  it  were  convenient  that  you  could  be  here  this  evening," 
said  she,  after  a  moment's  thought,  "  Willie  Hart  and  myself 
often  walk  over  to  Shottery  after  supper.  Then  could  I  let 
you  know." 

"  But  how  am  I  to  thank  you  for  such  a  favor  ?"  said  he. 

"Nay,  it  is  but  little,"  she  answered,  "to  do  for  one  that 
comes  from  my  father's  friend." 

' '  Rare  Ben,  as  they  call  him, "  said  he,  more  brightly.  ' '  And 
now  I  bethink  me,  kind  lady,  that  it  ill  becomes  me  to  have 
spoken  of  nothing  but  my  own  poor  affairs  on  my  fii*st  having 
the  honor  of  meeting  with  you.  Perchance  you  would  like 
to  hear  something  of  Master  Jonson,  and  how  he  does  ?  May 
I  accompany  you  on  your  homeward  way  for  a  space,  if  you 
are  returning  to  the  town  ?  The  road  here  is  quiet  enough 
for  one  that  is  in  hiding,  as  well  as  for  pleasant  walking; 


IN   A  WOODED  LANE.  43 

and  you  are  well  escorted,  too,"  he  added,  looking  at  the 
grave  and  indifferent  Don.  "  Witli  such  a  master  as  your  fa- 
ther, and  such  a  sweet  mistress,  I  should  not  wonder  if  he 
became  as  famous  as  Sir  John  Harrington's  Bungey  that  the 
Prince  asked  about.  You  have  not  heard  of  him  ? — the  mar- 
vellous dog  that  Sir  John  would  intrust  with  messages  all  the 
way  to  the  court  at  Greenwich ;  and  he  would  bring  back  the 
answer  without  more  ado.  I  wonder  not  that  Prince  Henry 
should  have  asked  for  an  account  of  all  his  feats  and  doings." 

Now  insensibly  she  had  turned  and  begun  to  walk  toward 
Shottery  (for  she  would  not  ask  this  unhappy  young  man  to 
court  the  light  of  the  open  highway),  and  as  he  respectfully 
accompanied  her  his  talk  became  more  and  more  cheerful,  so 
that  one  would  scarcelj"  have  remembered  that  he  was  in  hid- 
ing, and  in  peril  of  his  life  mayhap.  And  he  quickly  found 
that  she  was  most  interested  in  Jonson  as  being  her  father's 
friend  and  intimate. 

' '  Indeed,  I  should  not  much  marvel  to  hear  of  his  being 
soon  in  this  very  town  of  Stratford,"  said  he,  "for  he  has 
been  talking  of  late — nay,  he  has  been  talking  this  many  a 
day  of  it,  but  who  knows  when  the  adventure  will  take  i^lace  ? 
— of  travelling  all  the  way  to  Scotland  on  foot,  and  writing  an 
account  of  his  discoveries  on  the  road.  And  then  he  has  a 
mind  to  get  to  the  lake  of  Lomond,  to  make  it  the  scene  of  a 
fisher  and  pastoral  play,  he  says;  and  liis  friend  Drummond 
will  go  with  him;  and  they  speak  of  getting  still  further  to 
the  north,  and  being  the  guests  of  the  new  Scotch  lord,  Mac- 
kenzie of  Kintail,  that  was  made  a  peer  last  winter.  Nay, 
friend  Ben,  though  at  times  he  gibes  at  the  Scots,  at  other  times 
he  will  boast  of  his  Scotch  blood — for  his  grandfather,  as  I  have 
heard,  came  from  Annandale — and  you  will  often  hear  him  say 
that  whereas  the  late  Queen  was  a  niggard  and  close-fisted, 
this  Scotch  King  is  lavish  and  a  generous  patron.  If  he  go  to 
Scotland,  as  is  his  i^urpose,  surely  he  will  come  by  way  of  Strat- 
ford." 

"It  were  ill  done  of  him  else,"  said  Judith.  But  truly 
this  young  gentleman  was  so  bent  on  entertaining  her  with 
tales  of  his  acquaintance  in  London,  and  with  descriptions  of 
the  court  shows  and  j^ageants,  that  she  had  not  to  trouble  her- 
self much  to  join  in  the  conversation. 


44  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE, 

"A  lavish  patron  the  King  has  been  to  him  truly,"  he  con- 
tinued, stooping  to  pat  the  Don's  head,  as  if  he  would  make 
friends  with  him  too,  ' '  what  with  the  masks,  and  revels, 
and  so  forth.  Their  last  tiltings  at  Prince  Henry's  barriers 
exceeded  everything  that  had  gone  before,  as  I  think — and  I 
marvel  not  that  Ben  was  found  at  his  best,  seeing  how  the  King 
had  been  instructing  him.  Nay,  but  it  was  a  happy  conceit 
to  have  our  young  Lord  of  the  Isles  addressed  by  the  Lady 
of  the  Lake,  and  have  King  Arthur  hand  him  his  armor  out  of 
the  clouds — " 

"But  where  was  it,  good  sir?"  said  she  (to  show  that  she 
was  interested).  And  now  he  seemed  so  cheerful  and  friendly 
that  she  ventured  to  steal  a  look  at  him.  In  truth,  there  was 
nothing  very  doleful  or  tragic  in  his  appearance.  He  was  a 
handsomely  made  young  man,  -of  about  eight-and-tvventy  or 
so,  with  fine  features,  a  somewhat  pale  and  sallow  complexion 
(that  distinguished  him  markedly  from  the  rustic  red  and 
white  and  sun-brown  she  was  familiar  with),  and  eyes  of  a  sin- 
gular blackness  and  fire  that  were  exceedingly  respectful,  but 
tliat  -could,  as  any  one  might  see,  easily  break  into  mirth. 
He  was  well  habited  too,  for  now  he  had  partly  thrown  his 
travelling  cloak  aside,  and  his  slashed  doublet  and  hose  and 
shoes  were  smart  and  clearly  of  a  town  fashion.  He  wore 
no  sword ;  in  his  belt  there  was  only  a  small  dagger,  of  Vene- 
tian silver-work  on  the  handle,  and  with  a  sheath  of  stamped 
crimson  velvet. 

"  Dear  lady,  you  must  have  heard  of  them,"  he  continued, 
lightly — "I  mean  of  the  great  doings  in  the  banqueting-house 
at  Whitehall,  when  Prince  Henry  challenged  so  many  noble 
lords.  'Twas  a  brave  sight,  I  assure  you  ;  the  King  and  Queen 
were  there,  and  tlie  ambassadors  from  Spain  and  Venice,  and  a 
great  and  splendid  assemblage.  And  then,  when  Ben's  speech- 
es came  to  be  spoken,  there  was  Cyril  Davy,  that  is  said  to 
have  the  best  woman's  voice  in  London,  as  the  Lady  of  the 
Lake,  and  he  came  forward  and  said, 

'  Lest  any  yet  should  doubt,  or  might  mistake 
What  Nymph  I  am,  behold  the  ample  Lake 
Of  which  Tm  styled  ;  and  near  it  MerVm''s  tomb''; 

and  then  King  Arthur  appeared,  and  our  young  Lord  of  the 


IN  A  WOODED  LANE.  45 

Isles  had  a  magic  shield  handed  to  him.  Oh,  'twas  a  noble 
sight,  I  warrant  you  !  And  I  heard  that  the  Duke  of  Len- 
nox and  the  Earls  of  Ai'uudel  and  Southampton  and  all  of 
them  were  but  of  one  mind,  that  friend  Ben  had  never  done 
better." 

Indeed,  the  young  man,  as  they  loitered  along  the  pretty 
wooded  lane  in  the  hush  of  the  warm  still  noon  (there  was 
scarce  enough  wind  to  make  a  rustle  in  the  great  branching 
elms),  and  as  he  talked  of  all  manner  of  things  for  the  enter- 
tainment of  this  charming  companion  whom  a  happy  chance 
had  thrown  in  his  way,  seemed  to  be  well  acquainted  with  the 
court  and  its  doings,  and  all  the  busy  life  of  London.  If  she 
gathered  rightly,  he  had  himself  been  present  when  the  King 
and  the  nobles  went  in  the  December  of  the  previous  year  to 
Deptford  to  witness  the  launching  of  the  great  ship  of  the  East 
India  Company — the  Trade's  Encrease,  it  was  called — for  he 
described  the  magnificent  banquet  in  the  chief  cabin,  and  how 
the  King  gave  to  Sir  Thomas  Smith,  the  Governor,  a  fine  chain 
of  gold,  with  his  portrait  set  in  a  jewel,  and  how  angry  his 
Maj  .sty  became  when  they  found  that  tlie  ship  could  not  be 
launched  on  account  of  tlie  state  of  the  tide.  But  when  lie 
again  1: rough t  in  the  name  of  Jonson,  and  said  how  highly  the 
King  thought  of  his  writings,  and  what  his  Majesty  had  said 
of  this  or  the  other  device  or  masque  that  had  been  command- 
ed of  liim,  Judith  grew  at  length  to  be  not  so  pleased ;  and  she 
said,  with  some  asperity,  "But  the  King  holds  my  father  in 
honor  also,  for  he  wrote  him  a  letter  with  his  own  hand." 

"  I  heard  not  of  that,"  said  he,  but  of  coui'se  without  appear- 
ing to  doubt  her  word. 

"Nay,  but  I  saw  it,"  said  she — "I  saw  the  letter;  and  I  did 
not  think  it  well  that  my  father  should  give  it  to  Julius  Shawe, 
for  there  are  some  others  tliat  would  have  valued  it  as  much  as 
he — yes,  and  been  more  proud  of  it,  too." 

"  His  own  daughter,  perchance  ?"  he  said,  gently, 

Judith  did  not  speak.  It  was  a  sore  subject  with  her; 
indeed,  she  had  cried  in  secret,  and  bitterly,  when  she  learned 
that  the  letter  had  been  casually  given  away,  for  her  father 
seemed  to  put  no  great  store  by  it.  However,  that  had  no- 
thing to  do  witli  this  unhappy  young  gentleman  that  was  in 
hiding.     And  soon  slie  hud  dismissed  it  from  her  mind,  and 


46  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

was  engaged  in  fixing  the  exact  time  at  whicli,  as  she  hoped, 
she  would  be  able  to  bring  him  that  assurance,  or  that  caution, 
in  the  evening. 

"I  think  it  must  be  the  province  of  women  to  be  kind  to  the 
unfortunate,"  said  he,  as  they  came  in  sight  of  the  cottages; 
and  he  seemed  to  linger  and  hesitate  in  his  walk,  as  if  he  were 
afraid  of  going  further. 

"It  is  but  a  small  kindness,"  said  she;  "and  I  hope  it  will 
bring  you  and  my  father  together.  He  has  but  just  returned 
from  London,  and  you  will  not  have  much  news  to  give  him 
from  his  friend ;  but  you  will  be  none  the  less  welcome,  for  all 
are  welcome  to  him,  but  especially  those  whom  he  can  aid." 

"  If  I  were  to  judge  of  the  father  by  the  daughter,  I  should 
indeed  expect  a  friendly  treatment,"  said  he,  with  much 
courtesy. 

"Nay,  but  it  is  so  simple  a  matter,"  said  she. 

"Then  fare  you  well.  Mistress  Judith,"  said  he,  "if  I  may 
make  so  bold  as  to  guess  at  a  name  that  I  have  heard  named  in 
London." 

"  Oh,  no,  sir  ?"  said  she,  glancing  up  with  some  inquiry. 

"But  indeed,  indeed,"  said  he,  gallantly.  "And  who  can 
wonder  ?  'Twas  friend  Ben  that  I  heard  speak  of  you ;  I  mar- 
vel not  that  he  carried  your  praises  so  far.  But  now,  sweet 
lady,  that  I  see  you  would  go — and  I  wish  not  to  venture  near- 
er the  village  there — may  I  beseech  of  you  at  parting  a  further 
grace  and  favor  ?  It  is  that  you  would  not  reveal  to  any  one, 
no  matter  what  trust  you  may  put  in  them,  that  you  have  seen 
me  or  spoken  with  me.  You  know  not  my  name,  it  is  true, 
though  I  would  willingly  confide  it  to  you — indeed,  it  is  Leofric 
Hope,  madam ;  but  if  it  were  merely  known  that  you  had  met 
with  a  stranger,  curious  eyes  might  be  on  the  alert." 

"Fear  not,  sir,"  said  she,  looking  at  him  in  her  frank  way 
— and  there  was  a  kind  of  friendliness,  too,  and  sympathy  in 
her  regard.  "Your  secret  is  surely  safe  in  my  keeping.  I 
can  promise  you  that  none  shall  know  through  me  that  you 
are  in  the  neighborhood.  Farewell,  good  sir.  I  hope  your 
fortunes  will  mend  speedily." 

"  God  keep  you,  sweet  Mistress  Judith,"  said  he,  raising  his 
hat  and  bowing  low,  and  not  even  asking  to  be  allowed  to  take 
her  hand.     "  If  my  ill  fortune  should  carry  it  so  that  I  see  you 


WITHIN-DOORS.  47 

not  agaiu,  at  least  I  will  treasure  in  my  memory  a  vision  of 
kindness  and  beauty  that  I  trust  will  remain  forever  there. 
Farewell,  gentle  lady;  I  am  your  debtor." 

And  so  they  parted ;  and  he  stood  looking  after  her  and  the 
great  dog  as  they  passed  through  the  meadows ;  and  she  was 
making  all  the  haste  she  might,  for  although,  when  Judith's  fa- 
ther was  at  home,  the  dinner  hour  was  at  twelve  instead  of  at 
eleven,  still  it  would  take  her  all  the  time  to  be  punctual,  and 
she  was  scrupulous  not  to  offend.  He  stood  looking  after  her 
as  long  as  she  was  in  sight,  and  then  he  turned  away,  saying 
to  himself : 

"Why,  our  Ben  did  not  tell  us  a  tithe  of  the  truth! — for 
why  ? — because  it  was  with  his  tongue,  and  not  with  his  pen, 
that  he  described  her.  By  heaven,  she  is  a  marvel ! — and  I 
dare  be  sworn,  now,  that  half  the  clowns  in  Stratford  imagine 
themselves  in  love  with  her." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

WITHIN-DOORS. 

"When  in  the  afternoon  Judith  sought  out  her  gentle  gossip, 
and  with  much  cautious  tact  and  discretion  began  to  unfold 
her  perplexities  to  her,  Prudence  was  not  only  glad  enough  to 
liear  nothing  further  of  the  wizard — who  seemed  to  have  been 
driven  out  of  Juditli's  mind  altogether  by  the  actual  occurrences 
of  the  morning— but  also  she  became  possessed  with  a  secret 
wonder  and  joy;  for  .she  thought  that  at  last  her  dearest  and 
closest  friend  was  awaking  to  a  .sense  of  the  importance  of 
spiritual  things,  and  that  henceforth  there  would  be  a  bond  of 
confidence  between  them  far  more  true  and  abiding  than  "any 
that  had  been  before.  But  soon  .she  discovered  that  politics 
had  a  good  deal  to  do  witli  these  hesitating  inquiries;  and  at 
length  the  bewildered  Prudence  found  the  conversation  nar- 
rowing and  narrowing  itself  to  this  definite  question:  Wheth- 
er, supposing  there  were  a  young  man  charged  with  complicity 
in  a  Catholic  plot,  or  perhaps  having  been  compromised  in 
some  former  affair  of  the  kind,  and  supposing  him  to  appeal 
to  her  father,  would  he,  Judith's  father,  probably  be  inclined 


48  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

to  shelter  him  and  conceal  him,  and  give  him  what  aid  was 
possible  until  he  might  get  away  from  the  country  ? 

"  But  what  do  you  mean,  Judith  ?"  said  Prudence,  in  dismay. 
"Have  you  seen  any  one ?  What  is't  you  mean ?  Have  you 
seen  one  of  the  desperate  men  that  were  concerned  with 
Cateshy  ?" 

Indeed,  it  was  not  likely  that  either  of  these  two  Warwick- 
shire maidens  had  already  forgotten  the  terrible  tidings  that 
rang  through  the  land  but  a  few  years  before,  when  the  Gun- 
powder Treason  was  discovered ;  nor  how  the  conspirators  fled 
into  this  very  county ;  nor  yet  how  in  the  following  January, 
on  a  bitterly  cold  and  snowy  day,  there  was  brought  into  the 
town  the  news  of  the  executions  in  St.  Paul's  church-yard 
and  at  Westminster.  And,  in  trutb,  when  Prudence  Sbawe 
mentioned  Catesby's  name,  Judith's  cheek  turned  pale.  It  was 
but  for  an  instant.  She  banished  the  ungenerous  thought  the 
moment  that  it  occurred  to  her.  No,  she  was  sure  that  the 
unhappy  young  man  who  had  appealed  to  her  compassion  could 
not  have  been  concerned  in  any  such  bloody  enterprise.  His 
speech  w^as  too  gentle  for  that.  Had  he  not  declared  that  he 
only  wanted  time  to  prove  his  innocence  ?  It  is  true  he  had 
said  something  about  his  friends  in  Flanders,  and  often  enough 
had  she  heard  the  Puritan  divines  denouncing  Flanders  as  the 
very  hot-bed  of  the  machinations  of  the  Jesuits;  but  that  this 
young  man  might  have  friends  amongst  the  Jesuits  did  not 
appear  to  her  as  being  in  itself  a  criminal  thing,  any  more 
than  the  possibility  of  his  being  a  Catholic  was  sufficient  of  it- 
self to  deprive  him  of  her  frank  and  generous  sympathy. 

"I  may  not  answer  you  yea  nor  nay,  sweet  mouse,"  said 
she;  "but  assure  yourself  that  I  am  not  in  league  with  any 
desperate  villain.  I  but  put  a  case.  We  live  in  quiet  times 
now,  do  we  not,  good  Prue  ?  and  I  take  it  that  those  who  like 
not  the  country  are  free  to  leave  it.  But  tell  me,  if  my  father 
were  to  speak  openly,  which  of  the  parties  would  he  most  affect  ? 
And  how  stands  he  with  the  King  ?  Nay,  the  King  himself,  of 
what  religion  is  he  at  heart,  think  you  ?" 

"These  be  questions !"  said  Prudence,  staring  aghast  at  such 
ignorance. 

"I  but  use  my  ears,"  said  Judith,  indifferently,  "and  the 
winds  are  not  more  variable  than  the  opinions  that  one  listens 


WITHIN-DOORS.  49 

to.  Well  you  know  it,  Prue.  Here  is  one  tliat  says  the  King 
is  in  conscience  a  papist,  as  his  mother  was ;  and  that  he  gave 
a  guarantee  to  the  Catholic  gentry  ere  he  came  to  the  throne; 
and  that  soon  or  late  we  shall  have  mass  again ;  and  then  comes 
another  with  the  story  that  the  Pope  is  hot  and  angry  because 
the  King  misuseth  him  in  his  speech,  calling  him  Antichrist 
and  the  like ;  and  that  he  has  complained  to  the  French  King 
on  the  matter,  and  that  there  is  even  talk  of  excommunica- 
tion. What  can  one  believe  ?  How  is  one  to  know  ?  In- 
deed, good  mouse,  you  would  have  me  more  anxious  about 
such  things;  but  why  should  one  add  to  one's  difficulties?  I 
am  content  to  be  like  my  father,  and  stand  aside  from  the 
quarrel." 

"Your  wit  is  too  great  for  me,  dear  Judith,"  her  friend  said, 
rather  sadly;  "and  I  will  not  argue  with  you.  But  well  I 
know  there  may  be  a  calmness  that  is  of  ignorance  and  indif- 
ference, and  that  is  slothful  and  sinful ;  and  there  may  be  a 
calmness  that  is  of  assured  wisdom  and  knowledge  of  the  truth, 
and  that  I  trust  your  father  has  attained  to.  That  he  should 
keep  aside  from  disputes,  I  can  well  understand." 

"But  touching  the  King,  dear  cousin,"  said  Judith,  who 
had  her  own  ends  in  view.  "How  stands  my  father  Avith 
the  King  and  his  religion  ?  Nay,  but  I  know,  and  every  one 
knows,  that  in  all  other  matters  they  are  friends;  for  your 
brother  has  the  King's  letter — " 

"  That  I  wish  you  had  yourself,  Judith,  since  your  heart  is 
set  upon  it,"  said  her  companion,  gently. 

Judith  did  not  answer  that. 

"But  as  regards  religion,  sweet  Prue,  what  think  you  my 
father  would  most  favor,  were  there  a  movement  any  way  ? — a 
change  to  the  ancient  faith,  perchance  ?" 

She  threw  out  the  question  with  a  kind  of  studied  careless- 
ness, as  if  it  were  a  mere  matter  of  speculation ;  but  there  was 
a  touch  of  warmth  in  Prudence's  answer: 

"What,  then,  Judith?  You  think  he  would  disturb  the 
peace  of  the  land,  and  give  us  over  again  to  the  priests  and 
their  idol-worship  ?  I  trow  not."  Then  something  seemed  to 
occur  to  her  suddenly.  "But  if  you  have  any  doubt,  Judith, 
I  can  set  your  mind  at  rest — of  a  surety  I  can." 

"  How,  then,  dear  mouse  ?" 


50  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 


(( ' 


I  will  tell  you  the  manner  of  it.  No  longer  ago  than  yes- 
terday evening  I  was  seated  at  the  window  reading — it  was  the 
volume  that  Dr.  H?ll  brouglit  me  from  Worcester,  and  that 
I  value  more  and  more  the  longer  I  read  it — and  your  father 
came  into  the  house  asking  for  Julius.  So  I  put  the  book  on 
the  table,  with  the  face  downward,  and  away  I  went  to  seek 
for  my  brother.  Well,  then,  sweet  cousin,  when  I  came  back  to 
the  room,  there  was  your  father  standing  at  the  window  read- 
ing the  book  that  I  had  left,  and  I  would  not  disturb  him ;  and 
when  he  had  finished  the  page,  he  turned,  saying,  '  Good  bish- 
op !  good  bishop !'  and  putting  down  the  book  on  the  table  just 
as  he  had  found  it.  Dear  Judith,  I  hope  you  will  think  it  no 
harm  and  no  idle  curiosity  that  made  me  take  up  the  book  as 
soon  as  my  brother  was  come  in,  and  examine  the  jiassage,  and 
mark  it — " 

"Harm! — bless  thee,  sweetheart!''  Judith  exclaimed.  And 
she  added,  eagerly :  "But  have  you  the  book ?  Will  you  read 
it  to  me  ?  Is  it  about  the  King  ?  Do,  dear  cousin,  read  to  me 
what  it  was  that  my  father  approved.  Beshrew  me  !  but  I 
shall  have  to  take  to  school  lessons,  after  all,  lest  I  outlive 
even  your  gentle  patience." 

Straightway  Prudence  had  gone  to  a  small  cujiboard  of  box- 
es in  which  she  kept  all  her  most  vakied  possessions,  and  from 
thence  she  brought  a  stout  little  volume,  which,  as  Judith 
perceived,  had  a  tiny  book-mark  of  satin  projecting  from  the 
red-edged  leaves. 

' '  Much  comfort  indeed  have  I  found  in  these  Comfortable 
Notes,"  said  she.  "I  wish,  Judith,  you,  that  can  think  of 
everything,  would  tell  me  how  I  am  to  show  to  Dr.  Hall  that  I 
am  more  and  more  grateful  to  him  for  his  goodness.  What 
can  I  do  ? — words  are  such  poor  things !" 

"  But  the  passage,  good  Prue — what  was't  he  read  ?  I  pray 
you  let  me  hear,"  said  Judith,  eagerly;  for  here,  indeed, 
might  be  a  key  to  many  mysteries. 

"Listen,  then,"  said  her  companion,  opening  the  book. 
"The  Bishop,  you  understand,  Judith,  is  speaking  of  the  sacri- 
fices the  Jews  made  to  the  Lord,  and  he  goes  on  to  say : 

' ' '  Thus  had  this  people  their  peace-offerings ;  that  is,  duties 
of  thankfulness  to  their  God  for  the  peace  and  prosperity 
vouchsafed  unto  them.     And  most  fit  it  was  that  He  should 


WITHIN-DOORS.  51 

often  be  thanked  for  such  favors.  The  like  mercies  and  good- 
ness remain  to  us  at  this  day:  are  we  either  freed  from  the 
duty  or  left  without  means  to  perform  it  ?  No,  no ;  but  as  they 
had  oxen  and  kine,  and  sheep  and  goats,  then  appointed  and 
allowed,  so  have  we  the  calves  of  our  lips  and  the  sacrifice  of 
thanksgiving  still  remaining  for  us,  and  as  strictly  required 
of  us  as  these  (in  those  days)  were  of  them.  Offer  them  up, 
then,  with  a  free  heart  and  with  a  feeling  soul.  Our  peace  is 
great;  our  prosperity  comfortable;  our  God  most  sweet  and 
kind ;  and  shall  we  not  offer  ?  The  public  is  sweet,  the  private 
is  sweet,  and  forget  you  to  offer  ?  We  lay  us  down  and  take 
our  rest,  and  this  our  God  maketh  us  dwell  in  safety.  Oh, 
where  is  your  oflPering  ?  We  rise  again  and  go  to  our  labor, 
and  a  dog  is  not  heard  to  move  his  tongue  among  us  :  Owe 
no  offering  ?  O  Lord,  O  Lord,  make  us  thankful  to  Thee  for 
these  mercies:  the  whole  state  we  live  in,  for  the  common  and 
our  several  souls,  for  several  mercies  now  many  years  enjoyed ! 
O  touch  us ;  O  turn  us  from  our  fearful  dullness,  and  abusing 
of  this  so  sweet,  so  long,  and  so  happy  peace !  Continue  thy 
sacred  servant' — surely  you  know,  Judith,  whom  he  means — 
'  the  chiefest  means  under  Thee  of  this  our  comfort,  and 
ever  still  furnish  him  with  wise  helps,  truly  fearing  Thee,  and 
truly  loving  him.  Let  our  heads  go  to  the  grave  in  this 
peace,  if  it  may  be  Tliy  blessed  pleasure,  and  our  eyes  never  see 
the  change  of  so  happy  an  estate.  Make  us  thankful  and  full 
of  peace-offerings ;  be  Thou  still  ours,  and  ever  merciful. 
Amen !  Amen!' " 

"And  what  said  he,  sweet  Pruc — what  said  my  father?" 
Judith  asked,  though  her  eyes  were  distant  and  thoughtful. 

"  'Good  bishop!  good  bishop!'  said  he,  as  if  he  were  right 
well  pleased,  and  he  put  down  the  book  on  the  table.  Nay, 
you  may  be  certain,  Judith,  that  your  father  would  have 
naught  to  do  with  the  desperate  men  that  would  fain  upset 
the  country,  and  bring  wars  among  us,  and  hand  us  over  to 
the  Pope  again.  I  have  heard  of  such;  I  have  heai'd  that 
many  of  the  great  families  have  but  a  lip  loyalty,  and  have 
malice  at  their  heart,  and  would  willingly  plunge  the  land  in 
blood  if  they  could  put  the  priests  in  power  over  us  again. 
Be  sure  your  fatlier  is  not  of  tliat  mind." 

"But  if  one  were  in  distress,  Prudence," said  the  other,  ab- 


52  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

sently,  "perchance  with  a  false  charge  hanging  over  him 
that  could  be  disproved — say  that  one  were  in  hiding,  and 
only  anxious  to  prove  his  innocence,  or  to  get  away  from  the 
country,  is  my  father  likely  to  look  coldly  on  such  a  one  in 
misfortune  ?    No,  no,  surely,  sweet  mouse !" 

"But  of  whom  do  you  speak,  Judith  ?"  exclaimed  her  friend, 
regarding  her  with  renewed  alarm.  ' '  It  can  not  he  that  you 
know  of  such  a  one?  Judith,  I  beseech  you  speak  plainly! 
You  have  met  with  some  stranger  that  is  unknown  to  your 
own  people  ?  You  said  you  had  but  put  a  case,  but  now  you 
speak  as  if  you  knew  the  man.  I  beseech  you,  for  the  love 
between  us,  speak  plainly  to  me,  Judith !" 

"  I  may  not,"  said  the  other,  rising.  And  then  she  added, 
more  lightly,  ' '  Nay,  have  no  fear,  sweet  Prue ;  if  there  be  any 
danger,  it  is  not  I  that  run  it,  and  soon  there  will  be  no  occa- 
sion for  my  withholding  the  secret  from  you,  if  secret  there  be." 

"I  can  not  understand  you,  Judith,"  said  her  friend,  with 
the  pale,  gentle  face  full  of  a  tender  wistfulness  and  anxiety. 

"Such  timid  eyes!"  said  Judith,  laughing  good-naturedly. 
"Indeed,  Prudence,  I  have  seen  no  ghost,  and  goodman  Wiz- 
ard has  failed  me  utterly;  nor  sprite  nor  phantom  has  been 
near  me.  In  sooth  I  have  buried  poor  Tom's  bit  of  rosemary 
to  little  purpose.  And  now  I  must  get  me  home,  for  Master 
Parson  comes  this  afternoon,  and  I  will  but  wait  the  preaching 
to  hear  Susan  sing :  'tis  worth  the  penance.  Fai-ewell,  sweet 
mouse;  get  you  rid  of  your  alarm.  The  sky  will  clear  all  in 
good  time." 

So  they  kissed  each  other,  and  she  left ;  still  in  much  per- 
plexity, it  is  true,  but  nevertheless  resolved  to  tell  the  young 
man  honestly  and  plainly  the  result  of  her  inquiries. 

As  it  turned  out,  she  was  to  hear  something  more  about  the 
King  and  politics  and  religion  that  afternoon;  for  when  she 
got  home  to  New  Place,  Master  Blaise  was  already  there,  and 
he  was  eagerly  discussing  with  Judith's  mother  and  her  sister 
the  last  news  that  had  been  brought  from  London ;  or  rather 
he  was  expounding  it,  with  emphatic  assertions  and  denuncia- 
tions that  the  women-folk  received  for  the  most  part  with  a 
mute  but  quite  apparent  sympathy.  He  was  a  young  man  of 
about  six-and-twenty,  rather  inclined  to  be  stout,  but  with 
strongly  lined  features,  fair  complexion  and  hair,  an  intellect- 


WITHINDOORS,  53 

ual  forehead,  and  sharp  and  keen  gray  eyes.  The  one  point 
that  recommended  him  to  Judith's  favor — which  he  openly 
and  frankly,  but  with  perfect  independence,  sought — was  the 
uncompromising  manner  in  which  he  professed  his  opinions. 
These  frequently  angered  her,  and  even  at  times  roused  her  to 
passionate  indignation ;  and  yet,  oddly  enough,  she  had  a  kind 
of  lurking  admiration  for  the  very  honesty  that  scorned  to  cur- 
ry favor  with  her  by  means  of  any  suppression  or  evasion. 
It  may  be  that  there  was  a  trace  of  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent 
in  this  attitude  of  the  young  parson,  who  was  shrewd-headed 
as  well  as  clear-eyed,  and  was  as  quick  as  any  to  read  the  fear- 
less quality  of  Judith's  character.  At  all  events,  he  would 
not  yield  to  any  of  her  prejudices  ;  he  would  not  stoop  to 
flatter  her ;  he  would  not  abate  one  jot  of  his  protests  against 
the  vanity  and  pride,  the  heathenish  show  and  extravagance, 
of  women  ;  the  heinousness  and  peril  of  indifferentism  in 
matters  of  doctrine  ;  and  the  sinfulness  of  tbe  life  of  them 
that  countenanced  stage  plays  and  such  like  dcvilisli  iniquities. 
It  was  this  last  that  was  the  real  stumbling-block  and  conten- 
tion between  them.  Sometimes  Judith's  eyes  burned.  Once 
she  rose  and  got  out  of  the  room.  "  If  I  were  a  man.  Master 
Parson,"  she  was  saying  to  herself,  with  shut  teeth, "  by  the  life 
of  me  I  would  whip  you  from  Stratford  town  to  Warwick!" 
And  indeed  there  was  ordinarily  a  kind  of  armed  truce  be- 
tween these  two,  so  that  no  stranger  or  acquaintance  could 
very  easily  decide  what  their  precise  relations  were,  although 
every  one  knew  that  Judith's  mother  and  sister  held  the  young 
divine  in  great  favor,  and  would  fain  have  had  him  of  the 
family. 

At  this  moment  of  Judith's  entrance  he  was  much  exercised, 
as  has  been  said,  on  account  of  the  news  that  was  but  just 
come  from  London — how  that  the  King  was  driving  at  still 
further  impositions  because  of  the  Commons  begrudging  him 
supplies ;  and  naturally  Master  Blaise  Avarmly  approved  of  the 
Commons,  that  had  been  for  granting  the  liberties  to  the 
Puritans  which  the  King  had  refused.  And  not  only  was  this 
the  expression  of  a  general  opinion  on  the  subject,  but  he 
maintained  as  an  individual — and  as  a  very  emphatic  individ- 
ual too — tliat  the  prerogatives  of  the  crown,  the  wardsliips 

aud  purveyances  and  what  not,  were  monsU'ous  and  abomi- 

3 


54  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

nable,  and  a  way  of  escape  from  the  just  restraint  of  Parlia- 
ment, and  he  declared  with  a  sudden  vehemence  that  he 
would  rather  perish  at  the  stake  tlian  contribute  a  single  be- 
nevolence to  the  royal  purse.  Judith's  mother,  a  tall,  slight, 
silver-haired  woman,  with  eyes  that  had  once  been  of  ex- 
traordinary^ beauty,  but  now  were  groAvn  somewhat  sad  and 
worn,  and  her  daughter  Susanna  Hall,  who  was  darker  than 
her  sister  Judith  as  regarded  hair  and  eyebrows,  but  who  had 
blue-gray  eyes  of  a  singular  clearness  and  quickness  and  intel- 
ligence, listened  and  acquiesced ;  but  perhaps  they  were  better 
pleased  when  they  found  the  young  parson  come  out  of  that 
vehement  mood;  though  still  he  was  sharp  of  tongue  and  sar- 
castic, saying  as  an  excuse  for  the  King  that  now  he  was  re- 
venging himself  on  the  English  Puritans  for  the  treatment  he 
had  received  at  the  hands  of  the  Scotch  Presbyterians,  who 
had  harried  him  not  a  little.  He  had  not  a  word  for  Judith ; 
he  addressed  his  discourse  entirely  to  the  other  two.  And  she 
was  content  to  sit  aside,  for  indeed  this  discontent  with  the 
crown  on  the  part  of  the  Puritans  was  nothing  strange  or  novel 
to  her,  and  did  not  in  the  least  help  to  solve  her  present  per- 
plexity. 

And  now  the  maids  (for  Judith's  father  would  have  no  serv- 
ing-men, nor  stablemen,  nor  husbandmen  of  any  grade  what- 
ever, come  within-doors ;  the  work  of  the  house  was  done  en- 
tirely by  women-folk)  entered  to  prepare  the  long  oaken  table 
for  supper,  seeing  which  Master  Blaise  suggested  that  before 
that  meal  it  might  be  as  well  to  devote  a  space  to  divine  wor- 
ship. So  the  maids  were  bidden  to  stay  their  preparations, 
and  to  remain,  seating  themselves  dutifully  on  a  bench  brought 
crosswise,  and  the  others  sat  at  the  table  in  their  usual  chairs, 
while  the  preacher  opened  the  large  Bible  that  had  been  fetch- 
ed for  him,  and  proceeded  to  read  the  second  chapter  of  the 
Book  of  Jeremiah,  expounding  as  he  went  along.  This  run- 
ning commentary  was,  in  fact,  a  sermon  applied  to  all  the  evils 
of  the  day,  as  the  various  verses  happened  to  offer  texts ;  and  the 
ungodliness  and  the  vanity  atid  the  turning  away  from  the 
Lord  that  Jeremiah  lamented  were  attributed  in  no  unsparing 
fashion  to  the  town  of  Stratford  and  the  inhabitants  thereof: 
"Hear  ye  the  word  of  the  Lord,  O  house  of  Jacob,  and  all  the 
families  of  the  house  of  Israel :  thus  saith  the  Lord,  What  in^ 


WITHIN-DOORS.  55 

iquity  have  your  fathers  found  in  me,  that  they  are  gone  far 
from  me,  and  have  walked  after  vanity,  and  are  become  vain  ?" 
Nor  did  he  spare  himself  and  his  own  calling- :  ' '  The  priests 
said  not.  Where  is  the  Lord  ?  and  they  that  sliould  minister 
the  law  knew  me  not:  the  pastors  also  offended  against  me, 
and  the  prophets  prophesied  in  Baal,  and  went  after  things  that 
did  not  profit."  And  there  were  bold  paraphrases  and  induc- 
tions, too  :  ' '  What  hast  thou  now  to  do  in  the  way  of  Egypt, 
to  drink  the  waters  of  Nil  us  ?  or  what  makest  thou  in  the  way 
of  Asshur,  to  drink  the  waters  of  the  river?"  Was  not  that  the 
seeking  of  strange  objects — of  baubles,  and  jewels,  and  silks, 
and  other  instruments  of  vanity — from  abroad,  from  the  papist 
land  of  France,  to  lure  the  eye  and  deceive  the  senses,  and 
turn  away  the  mind  fi'om  the  dwelling  on  holy  things  ?  "  Can 
a  maid  forget  her  ornament,  or  a  bride  her  attu-e  ?  jei  my  peo- 
ple have  forgotten  me  days  without  number."  This  was,  in- 
deed, a  fruitful  text,  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  Judith  was  in- 
directly admonished  to  regard  the  extreme  simplicity  of  her 
mother's  and  sister's  attire;  so  that  there  can  be  no  excuse 
whatever  for  her  having  in  her  mind  at  this  very  moment 
some  vague  fancy  that  as  soon  as  supper  was  over  she  would 
go  to  her  own  chamber  and  take  out  a  certain  beaver  hat.  She 
did  not  often  wear  it,  for  it  was  a  present  that  her  father  had 
once  brought  her  fi'om  London,  and  it  was  ranked  among  her 
most  precious  ti'easures ;  but  surely  on  this  evening  (she  was  say- 
ing to  herself)  it  was  fitting  that  she  should  wear  it,  not  from 
any  personal  vanity,  but  to  the  end  that  this  young  gentle- 
man, who  seemed  to  know  several  of  her  father's  acquaint- 
ances in  London,  should  understand  that  the  daugliter  of  the 
owner  of  New  Place  was  no  mere  country  wencli,  ignorant  of 
what  was  in  the  fashion.  It  is  grievous  that  she  should  have 
been  concerned  with  such  frivolous  thoughts.  However,  the 
chapter  came  to  an  end  in  due  time. 

Then  good  Master  Blaise  said  that  they  would  sing  the  One- 
hundred-and-thirty-seventh  Psalm;  and  this  was  truly  what 
Judith  had  been  waiting  for.  She  herself  was  but  an  indiffer- 
ent singer.  She  could  do  little  more  than  hum  such  snatches 
of  old  songs  as  occurred  to  her  during  her  careless  rambles, 
and  that  only  for  her  private  oar;  but  her  sister  Susanna  bad 
a  most  noble,  pure,  and  clear  contralto  voice,  that  could  at  any 


56  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

time  bring  tears  to  Judith's  eyes,  and  that,  when  she  joined 
in  the  choral  parts  of  the  service  in  church,  made  many  a 
young  man's  heart  to  tremble  strangely.  In  former  days  she 
used  to  sing  to  the  accompaniment  of  her  lute;  but  that  was 
given  over  now.  Once  or  twice  Judith  had  brought  the  dis- 
carded instrument  to  her,  and  said, 

"  Susan,  sweet  Susan,  for  once,  for  once  only,  sing  to  me  '  The 
rose  is  from  my  garden  gone.''  " 

"Why,  then— to  make  you  cry,  silly  one?"  the  elder  sister 
would  answer.  "What  profit  those  idle  tears,  child,  that  are 
but  a  luxury  and  a  sinful  indulgence  ?" 

"Susan,  but  once!"  Judith  would  plead  (with  the  tears  al- 
most already  in  her  eyes)— "once  only,  '  The  rose  is  from  my 
garden  gone.'     There  is  none  can  sing  it  like  you." 

But  the  elder  sister  was  obdurate,  as  she  considered  was 
right;  and  Judith,  as  she  walked  through  the  meadows  in  the 
evening,  would  sometimes  try  the  song  for  herself,  thinking,  or 
endeavoring  to  think,  that  she  could  hear  in  it  the  pathetic 
vibration  of  her  sister's'  voice.  Indeed,  at  this  moment  the 
small  congregation  assembled  around  tbe  table  would  doubt- 
less have  been  deeply  shocked  had  they  known  with  what  a 
purely  secular  delight  Judith  was  now  listening  to  the  words 
of  the  psalm.  There  was  but  one  Bible  in  the  house,  so  that 
Master  Blaise  read  out  the  first  two  lines  (lest  any  of  the  maids 
might  have  a  lax  memory) : 

"  When  as  loe  sat  in  Babylon, 
The  rivers  round  abouV  ; 

and  that  they  sang;  then  they  proceeded  in  like  manner: 

^'■And  in  remembrance  of  Sion, 
The  tears  for  grief  'burst  out  ; 
We  hanged  our  harps  and  imtruments 

The  luillow-trees  upon; 
For  in  that  place  men  for  their  use 
Had  planted  m,any  a  one." 

It  is  probable,  indeed,  that  Judith  was  so  wrapped  up  in  her 
sister's  singing  that  it  did  not  occur  to  her  to  ask  herself 
whether  this  psalm,  too,  had  not  been  chosen  with  some  re- 
gard to  the  good  preacher's  discontent  with  those  in  power. 
At  all  events,  he  read  out,  and  they  sang,  no  further  than 
these  two  verses : 


a 

S 
3 

5 

53 


STATE  KCH"J.L3?!!0ei, 


WITHINDOORS.  69 

"  Then  they  to  whom  we  prisoners  were, 

Said  to  u/>  tauntingly  : 
Now  let  lis  hear  your  Hebrew  songs 

And  pleasant  melody. 
Alas  !  (said  we)  loho  can  once  frame 

His  sorrowful  heart  to  sing 
Tlie  praises  of  our  loving  God 

Thus  under  a  strange  king? 

"  But  yet  if  I  Jerusalem 

Out  of  my  heart  let  slide, 
T/ien  let  my  fingers  quite  forget 

The  ivarbling  harp  to  guide  ; 
And  let  my  tongue  within  my  mouth 

Be  tied  forever  fast. 
If  that  I  joy  before  I  see 

Tfiy  full  deliverance  past." 

Then  there  was  a  short  and  earnest  prayer;  and,  that  over, 
the  maids  set  to  work  to  get  forward  the  supper ;  and  young 
Willie  Hart  was  called  in  from  the  garden— Judith's  father  be- 
ing away  at  Wilmcote  on  some  important  business  there.  In 
due  course  of  time,  supper  being  finished,  and  a  devout  thanks- 
giving said,  Judith  was  free ;  and  instantly  she  fled  away  to 
her  own  chamber  to  don  her  bravery.  It  was  not  vanity  (she 
again  said  to  herself),  it  was  that  her  fathers  daughter  should 
show  that  she  knew  what  was  due  to  him  and  his  standing  in 
the  town ;  and,  indeed,  as  she  now  regarded  herself  in  the  little 
mirror— she  wore  a  half-circle  farthingale,  and  had  on  one  of 
her  smartest  ruffs — and  when  she  set  on  her  head  of  short 
brown  curls  this  exceedingly  pretty  hat  (it  was  of  gray  beaver 
above,  and  underneath  it  was  lined  with  black  satin,  and  all 
around  the  rim  was  a  row  of  hollow  brass  beads  that  tinkled 
like  small  bells),  she  was  quite  well  satisfied  with  her  appear- 
ance, and  that  she  was  fairly  entitled  to  be.  Then  she  went 
down  and  summoned  her  sweetheart  Willie,  to  act  as  her  com- 
panion and  protector  and  ally ;  and  together  these  two  passed 
forth  from  the  house— into  the  golden  clear  evening. 


60  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  FAREWELL. 

Always,  when  she  got  out  into  the  open  air,  her  spirits  rose 
into  a  pure  content;  and  now,  as  they  were  walking  westward 
through  the  peaceful  meadows,  the  light  of  the  sunset  was  on 
her  face ;  and  there  was  a  kind  of  radiance  there,  and  careless 
happiness,  that  little  Willie  Hart  scarce  dared  look  upon,  so 
abject  and  wistful  was  the  worship  that  the  small  lad  laid  at 
his  pretty  cousin's  feet.  He  was  a  sensitive  and  imaginative 
boy;  and  the  joy  and  crown  of, his  life  was  to  be  allowed  to 
walk  out  with  his  cousin  Judith,  her  hand  holding  his;  and  it 
did  not  matter  to  him  whether  she  spoke  to  him,  or  whether 
she  was  busy  with  her  private  thinking,  and  left  him  to  his 
own  pleasure  and  fancies.  He  had  many  of  these;  for  he  had 
heard  of  all  kinds  of  great  and  noble  persons— princesses,  and 
empresses,  and  queens ;  but  to  him  his  cousin  Judith  was  the 
Queen  of  queens ;  he  could  not  believe  that  any  one  ever  was 
more  beautiful — or  more  gentle  and  lovable,  in  a  magical  and 
mystical  way — than  she  was ;  and  in  church,  on  the  quiet  Sun- 
day mornings,  when  the  choir  w^as  singing,  and  all  else  silence, 
and  dreams  wei'e  busy  in  certain  small  brains,  if  there  were 
any  far-away  pictures  of  angels  in  white  and  shining  robes, 
coming  toward  one  through  rose-red  celestial  gaixlens,  be  sure 
they  had  Judith's  eyes  and  the  light  and  witchery  of  these; 
and  that,  when  they  spoke  (if  such  wonderful  creatures  vouch- 
safed to  speak),  it  was  with  the  softness  of  Judith's  voice.  So 
it  is  not  to  be  conceived  that  Judith,  who  knew  something  of 
this  mute  and  secret  adoration,  had  any  malice  in  her  heart 
when,  on  this  particular  evening,  she  began  to  question  the 
boy  as  to  the  kind  of  sweetheart  he  would  choose  when  he 
was  grown  up:  the  fact  being  that  she  spoke  from  idleness, 
and  a  wish  to  be  friendly  and  companionable,  her  tiiCiiights 
being  I'eally  occupied  elsewhere. 

"Come,  now,  Willie,  tell  me,"  said  she,  "what  sort  of  one 
you  will  choose,  some  fifteen  or  twenty  years  hence,  when  you 


A   FAREWELL.  61 

are  grown  up  to  be  a  man,  and  will  be  going  abroad  from  place 
to  place.  In  Coventry,  perchance,  you  may  find  her,  or  over 
at  Evesham,  or  in  Warwick,  or  Worcester,  or  as  far  away  as 
Oxford :  in  all  of  them  are  plenty  of  pretty  maidens  to  be  had 
for  the  asking,  so  you  be  civil-spoken  enough,  and  bear  your- 
self well.  Now  tell  me  your  fancy,  sweetheart:  what  shall  her 
height  be  ?" 

"Why,  you  know,  Judith,"  said  he,  rather  shamefacedly. 
"Just  your  height." 

"My  height  ?"  she  said,  carelessly.  "  Why,  that  is  neither 
the  one  way  nor  the  other.  My  father  says  I  am  just  as  high 
as  his  heart ;  and  with  that  I  am  content.  Well,  now,  her  hair 
— what  color  of  hair  shall  she  have  ?" 

"Like  yours,  Judith;  and  it  must  come  round  about  her 
ears  like  yours,"  said  he,  glancing  up  for  a  moment. 

"Eyes:  must  they  be  black,  or  gray,  or  brown,  or  blue? 
Nay,  you  shall  have  your  choice,  sweetheart  Willie  :  there  be 
all  sorts,  if  you  go  far  enough  afield  and  look  around  you. 
What  eyes  do  you  like,  now  ?" 

"You  know  well,  Judith,  there  is  no  one  has  such  pretty 
eyes  as  you ;  these  are  the  ones  I  like,  and  no  others." 

"Bless  the  boy ! — would  you  have  her  to  be  like  me ?" 

"Just  like  you,  Judith  —  altogether,"  said  he,  promptly; 
and  he  added,  more  shyly,  "For  you  know  thei'e  is  none  as 
pretty,  and  they  all  of  them  say  that." 

"Marry,  now!"  said  she,  with  a  laugh.  "Here  be  news. 
What  ?  When  you  go  choosing  your  sweetheart,  would  you 
pick  out  one  that  had  as  large  hands  as  these  ?" 

She  held  forth  her  hands,  and  regarded  them  ;  and  yet  with 
some  complacency,  for  she  had  put  on  a  pair  of  scented  gloves 
which  her  father  had  brought  her  from  London,  and  these 
were  beautifully  embroidered  with  silver,  for  he  knew  he^ 
tastes,  and  that  she  was  not  afraid  to  wear  finery,  whatever  the 
preachers  might  say. 

"Why,  you  know,  Judith,"  said  he,  "that  there  is  none 
has  such  pretty  hands  as  you,  nor  so  white,  nor  so  soft." 

"Heaven  save  us!  am  I  perfection,  then?"  she  cried  (but 
she  was  pleased).      "  Must  she  be  altogether  like  me  ?" 

"Just  so.  Cousin  Judith;  altogether  like  you;  and  she  must 
wear  pretty  things  like  you,  and  walk  as  you  walk,  and  speak 


62  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

like  you,  else  I  shall  not  love  her  nor  go  near  her,  though  she 
were  the  Queen  herself." 

"Well  said,  sweetheart  Willie ! — you  shall  to  the  court  some 
day,  if  you  can  speak  so  fair.  And  shall  I  tell  you,  now,  how 
you  must  woo  and  win  such  a  one  ?"  she  continued,  lightly. 
' '  It  may  be  you  shall  find  her  here  or  there^in  a  farm-house, 
perchance ;  or  she  may  be  a  great  lady  w^ith  her  coach ;  or  a 
wench  in  an  ale-house;  but  if  she  be  as  you  figure  her,  this  is 
how  you  shall  do :  you  must  not  grow  up  to  be  too  nice  and 
fine  and  delicate-handed ;  you  must  not  bend  too  low  for  her 
favor ;  but  be  her  lord  and  governor ;  and  you  must  be  ready 
to  fight  for  her,  if  need  there  be — yes,  you  shall  not  su£Per  a 
word  to  be  said  in  dispraise  of  her ;  and  for  slanderers  you  must 
have  a  cudgel  and  a  stout  arm  v/ithal ;  and  yet  you  must  be 
gentle  with  her,  because  she  is  a  woman ;  and  yet  not  too  gentle, 
for  you  are  a  man ;  and  you  must  be  no  slape-face,  with  whin- 
ing through  the  nose  that  we  are  all  devilish  and  wicked  and 
the  children  of  sin ;  and  you  must  be  no  tavern-seeker,  with 
oaths  and  drunken  jests  and  the  like ;  and  when  you  find  her 
you  must  be  the  master  of  her — and  yet  a  gentle  master :  mar- 
ry, I  can  not  tell  you  more;  but,  as  I  hope  for  heaven,  sweet 
Willie,  you  will  do  well  and  fairly  if  she  love  thee  half  as  much 
as  I  do." 

And  she  patted  the  boy's  head.  What  sudden  pang  was  it 
that  went  through  his  heart  ? 

"They  say  you  are  going  to  marry  Parson  Blaise,  Judith," 
said  he,  looking  up  at  her. 

"  Do  they,  now?"  said  she,  with  a  touch  of  color  in  her  face. 
"They  are  too  kind  that  would  take  from  me  the  business  of 
choosing  for  myself." 

"  Is  it  true,  Judith  ?" 

"  It  is  but  idle  talk;  heed  it  not,  sweetheart,"  said  she,  rather 
sharply.  ' '  I  would  they  were  as  busy  with  their  fingers  as  with 
their  tongues ;  there  would  be  more  wool  spun  in  Warwick' 
shire  I" 

But  hei'e  she  remembered  that  she  had  no  quarrel  with  the 
lad,  who  had  but  innocently  repeated  the  gossip  he  had  heard; 
and  so  she  spoke  to  him  in  a  more  gentle  fashion ;  and,  as  they 
were  now  come  to  a  parting  of  the  ways,  she  said  that  she  had 
a  message  to  deliver,  and  bade  him  go  on  by  himself  to  the  cot- 


A  FAREWELL.  63 

tage,  and  have  some  flowers  gathered  for  her  from  out  of  the 
garden  by  the  time  she  shoukl  arrive.  He  was  a  biddable  boy, 
and  went  on  without  further  question.  Then  she  turned  off 
to  the  left,  and  in  a  few  minutes  was  in  the  wide  and  wooded 
lane  whei'e  she  was  to  meet  the  young  gentleman  that  had  ap- 
pealed to  her  friendliness. 

And  there,  sure  enough,  he  was;  and  as  he  came  forward, 
hat  in  hand,  to  greet  her,  those  eloquent  black  eyes  of  his  ex- 
pressed so  much  pleasure  (and  admiration  of  a  respectful  kind) 
that  Judith  became  for  a  moment  a  trifle  self-conscious,  and 
remembered  that  she  was  in  unusually  brave  attire.  There 
may  have  been  something  else:  some  quick  remembrance  of 
the  surprise  and  alarm  of  the  morning;  and  also  —  in  spite 
of  her  determination  to  banish  such  unworthy  fancies — some 
frightened  doubt  as  to  whether,  after  all,  there  might  not  be  a 
subtle  connection  between  her  meeting  with  this  young  gen- 
tleman and  the  forecasts  of  the  wizard.  This  was  but  fo:*  a  mo- 
ment, but  it  confused  her  in  what  she  had  intended  to  say 
(for,  in  crossing  the  meadows,  she  had  been  planning  out  cer- 
tain speeches  as  well  as  talking  idly  to  Willie  Hart),  and  she 
was  about  to  make  some  stumbling  confession  to  the  effect  that 
she  had  obtained  no  clear  intelligence  from  her  gossip  Pru- 
dence Shawe,  when  the  young  gentleman  himself  absolved  her 
from  all  further  difiiculty. 

"I  beseech  your  pardon,  sweet  lady,"  said  he,  "that  I  have 
caused  you  so  much  trouble,  and  that  to  no  end;  for  I  am  of 
a  mind  now  not  to  carry  tbe  letter  to  your  father,  whatever 
hopes  there  might  be  of  his  sympathy  and  friendship.'" 

She  stared  in  surprise. 

"Nay,  but,  good  sir, ".said  she,  "since  you  have  the  letter, 
and  are  so  near  to  Stratford,  that  is  so  great  a  distance  from 
London,  surely  it  were  a  world  of  pities  you  did  not  see  my 
father.  Not  that  I  can  honestly  gather  that  he  would  have 
any  favor  for  a  desperate  enterprise  upsetting  the  peace  of  the 
land—" 

"I  am  in  none  such.  Mistress  Judith,  believe  me,"  said  he, 
quickly.  "But  it  behooves  me  to  be  cautious;  and  I  have 
heard  that  within  the  last  few  hours  which  summons  me  away. 
If  I  were  inclined  to  run  the  risk,  there  is  no  time  at  this 
present ;  and  what  I  can  do  now  is  to  try  to  thank  you  for  the 

3* 


64  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

kindness  you  have  shown  to  one  that  has  no  habit  of  forget- 
ting." 

"You  are  going  away  forthwith  ?"  said  she. 

There  was  no  particular  reason  why  she  should  be  sorry 
at  his  departure  fi'om  the  neighborhood,  except  that  he  was  an 
extraordinarily  gentle-spoken  young  man,  and  of  a  courteous 
breeding,  whom  her  father,  as  she  thought,  would  have  been 
pleased  to  welcome  as  being  commended  from  his  friend  Ben 
Jonson.  Few  visitors  came  to  New  Place;  the  faces  to  be  met 
with  there  were  grown  familiar  year  after  year.  It  seemed  a 
pity  that  this  stranger — and  so  fair-spoken  a  stranger,  more- 
over— should  be  close  at  hand,  without  making  her  father's 
acquaintance. 

"Yes,  sweet  lady,"  said  he,  in  the  same  respectful  way,  "  it  is 
true  that  I  must  quit  my  present  lodging  for  a  time ;  but  I  doubt 
whether  I  could  find  anywhere  a  quieter  or  securer  place — nay, 
I  have  no  reason  to  fear  you ;  I  will  tell  you  freely  that  it  is 
Bassfield  Farm,  that  is  on  the  left  before  you  go  down  the 
hill  to  Bidfoi'd;  and  it  is  like  enough  I  may  come  back  thithei', 
when  that  I  see  how  matters  stand  with  me  in  London." 

And  then  he  glanced  at  her  with  a  certain  diffidence. 

"Perchance  I  am  too  daring,"  said  he;  "and  yet  your 
courtesy  makes  me  bold.  Were  I  to  communicate  with  you 
when  I  return — " 

He  paused,  and  his  hesitation  well  became  him :  it  was  more 
eloquent  in  its  modesty  than  many  words. 

"That  were  easily  done,"  said  Judith  at  once,  and  with  her 
usual  frankness ;  "but  I  must  tell  you,  good  sir,  that  any  writ- 
ten message  you  might  send  me  I  should  have  to  show  to  my 
friend  and  gossip  Prudence  Shawe,  that  reads  and  writes  for 
me,  being  so  skilled  in  that;  and  when  you  said  that  to  no  one 
was  the  knowledge  to  be  given  that  you  were  in  this  neighbor- 
hood— " 

"Sweet  lady,"  said  he,  instantly,  with  much  gratitude  vis- 
ible in  those  handsome  dark  eyes,  "  if  I  may  so  far  trespass 
ou  your  goodness,  I  would  leave  that  also  within  your  discre- 
tion. One  that  you  have  chosen  to  be  your  friend  must  needs 
be  trustworthy — nay,  I  am  sure  of  that." 

"  But  my  father  too,  good  sir — " 

"Nay,  not  so,"  said  he,  with  some  touch  of  entx'eaty  in  his 


A  FAREWELL.  65 

voice.  ' '  Take  it  not  ill  of  me,  but  one  that  is  in  peril  must  use 
precautions  for  his  safety,  even  though  they  savor  of  ill  man- 
ners and  suspicion." 

"As  you  will,  sir — as  you  will;  I  know  little  of  such  mat- 
ters," Judith  said.  "But  yet  I  know  that  you  do  wrong  to 
mistrust  my  father." 

"Nay,  dearest  lady,"  he  said,  quickly,  " it  is  you  that  do  me 
wrong  to  use  such  words.  I  mistrust  him  not;  but,  indeed, 
I  dare  not  disclose  to  him  the  charge  that  is  brought  against 
me  until  I  have  clearer  proofs  of  my  innocence,  and  these  I 
hope  to  have  in  time,  when  I  may  present  myself  to  your  fa- 
ther without  fear.  Meanwhile,  sweet  Mistress  Judith,  I  can 
but  ill  express  my  thanks  to  you  that  you  have  vouchsafed  to 
lighten  the  tedium  of  my  hiding  through  these  few  words  that 
have  passed  between  us.  Did  you  know  the  dullness  of  the 
days  at  the  farm — for  sad  thoughts  are  but  sorry  companions 
— you  Avould  understand  my  gratitude  toward  you — " 

"Nay,  nothing,  good  sir,  nothing," said  she;  and  then  she 
paused,  in  some  difficulty.  She  did  not  like  to  bid  him  fare- 
well without  any  reference  whatsoever  to  the  futui'e;  for  in 
truth  she  wished  to  hear  more  of  him,  and  how  his  fortunes 
prospered.  And  yet  she  hesitated  about  betraying  so  much 
interest — of  however  distant  and  ordinary  a  kind — in  the  af- 
fairs of  a  stranger.  Her  usual  frank  sympathy  conquered :  be- 
sides, was  not  this  unhappy  young  man  the  friend  of  her  fa- 
ther's friend  ? 

"Is  it  to  the  farm  that  you  return  when  you  have  been  to 
London  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  trust  so :  better  security  I  could  not  easily  find  elsewhere ; 
and  my  Avell-wishers  have  means  of  communication  with  me, 
so  that  I  can  get  the  news  there.  Pray  Heaven  I  may  soon  be 
quit  of  this  skulking  in  corners!  I  like  it  not:  it  is  not  the 
life  of  a  free  man." 

"I  hope  your  fortunes  will  mend,  sir,  and  speedily,"  said 
she,  and  there  was  an  obvious  sincerity  in  her  voice. 

"  Why,"  said  he,  with  a  laugh— for,  indeed,  this  young  man, 
to  be  one  in  peril  of  his  life,  bore  himself  with  a  singularly 
free  and  undaunted  demeanor ;  and  he  was  not  looking  around 
him  in  a  furtive  manner,  as  if  he  feared  to  be  observed,  but  was 
allowing  his  eyes  to  rest  on  Judith's  eyes,  and  on  the  details  of 


66  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

her  costume  (which  he  seemed  to  approve),  in  a  quite  easy  and 
unconcerned  manner — "the  birds  and  beasts  we  hunt  are  al- 
lowed to  rest  at  times,  but  a  man  in  hiding  has  no  peace  nor 
freedom  from  week's  end  to  week's  end — no,  nor  at  any  mo- 
ment of  the  day  or  night.  And  if  the  good  people  that  shelter 
him  are  not  entirely  of  his  own  station,  and  if  he  cares  to  have 
but  little  speech  with  them,  and  if  the  only  book  in  the  house 
be  the  family  Bible,  then  the  days  are  like  to  pass  slowly  with 
him.  Can  you  wonder,  sweet  Mistress  Judith,"  he  continued, 
turning  his  eyes  to  the  ground  in  a  modest  manner,  "that  I 
shall  carry  away  the  memory  of  this  meeting  with  you  as  a 
treasure,  and  dwell  on  it,  and  recall  the  kindness  of  each  word 
you  have  spoken  ?" 

"In  truth,  no,  good  sii',"said  she,  with  a  touch  of  color  in 
her  cheeks,  that  caught  the  warm  golden  light  shining  over 
from  the  west.  "I  would  not  have  you  think  them  of  any 
importance,  except  the  hope  that  matters  may  go  well  with 
you." 

"And  if  they  should,"  said  he,  "or  if  they  should  go  ill, 
and  if  I  were  to  presume  to  think  that  you  cared  to  know 
them,  when  I  return  to  Bassfield  I  might  make  so  bold  as  to 
send  you  some  brief  tidings,  through  your  friend  Mistress  Pru- 
dence Shawe,  that  I  am  sure  must  be  discreet,  since  she  has 
won  your  confidence.  But  why  should  I  do  so?"  he  added,  aft- 
er a  second.  "Why  should  I  trouble  you  with  news  of  one 
whose  good  or  evil  fortune  can  not  concern  you  ?" 

"Nay,  sir,  I  wish  you  well,"  said  she,  simply,  "and  would 
fain  hear  better  tidings  of  your  condition.  If  you  may  not 
come  at  present  to  New  Place,  where  you  would  have  better 
counsel  than  I  can  give  you,  at  least  you  may  remember  that 
there  is  one  in  the  household  there  that  will  be  glad  when 
she  hears  of  your  welfare,  and  better  pleased  still  when  she 
learns  that  you  are  free  to  make  her  father's  friendship." 

This  was  clearly  a  dismissal ;  and  after  a  few  more  words  of 
gratitude  on  his  part  (he  seemed  almost  unable  to  take  away 
his  eyes  from  her  face,  or  to  say  all  that  he  would  fain  say  of 
thanks  for  her  gracious  interventioji  and  sympathy)  they  part- 
ed; and  forthwith  Judith — now  with  a  much  lighter  heart,  for 
this  interview  had  cost  her  not  a  little  embarrassment  and 
anxiety — hastened  away  back  through  the  lane  in  the  direction 


A  FAEEWELL.  67 

of  the  barns  and  gardens  of  Shottery.  All  these  occurrences 
of  the  day  had  happened  so  rapidly  that  she  had  had  hut  little 
time  to  reflect  over  them ;  but  now  she  was  clearly  glad  that 
she  should  be  able  to  talk  over  the  whole  affair  with  Prudence 
Shawe.  Tliere  would  be  comfort  in  that,  and  also  safety ;  for, 
if  the  truth  must  be  told,  that  wild  and  bewildering  fancy  that 
perchance  the  wizard  had  prophesied  truly  would  force  itself 
on  her  mind  in  a  disquieting  manner.  But  she  strove  to  reason 
herself  and  laugh  herself  out  of  such  imaginings.  She  had 
plenty  of  coui'age  and  a  strong  will       Y  '-had 

made  light  of  the  wizarl      in-'-it  ur  ions  ;  ~  g  to 

alarm  herself  about  tht  ire  co  this 

accidental  meeting.     Ami,  luo  >ai'- 

ticulars  of  that  meeting,  -ha  -'^  iii'    ■  ^   -m- 

stances  of  the  young  mar  .  .v.i>  desperate.     He 

did  not  speak  nor  look  liKe  one  in  imminent  peril;  his  gay 
description  of  the  masques  and  entertainments  of  the  court  was 
not  the  talk  of  a  man  seriously  and  really  in  danger  of  his  life. 
Perhaps  he  had  been  in  some  thoughtless  escapade,  and  was 
waiting  for  the  bruit  of  it  to  blow  over;  perhaps  he  was  un- 
used to  confinement,  and  may  have  exaggerated  (for  this  also 
occurred  to  her)  somewhat  in  order  to  win  her  sympathy. 
But,  anyhow,  he  was  in  some  kind  of  misfortune  or  trouble, 
and  she  was  sorry  for  him ;  and  she  thought  that  if  Prudence 
Shawe  could  see  him,  and  observe  how  well-bred  and  civil- 
spoken  and  courteous  a  young  gentleman  he  seemed  to  be,  she, 
too,  would  pity  the  dullness  of  the  life  he  must  be  leading  at 
the  farm,  and  be  glad  to  do  anything  to  relieve  such  a  tedium. 
In  truth,  by  the  time  Judith  was  drawing  near  her  grandmo- 
ther's cottage,  she  had  convinced  herself  that  there  was  no 
dark  mystery  connected  with  this  young  man;  that  she  had 
not  been  holding  converse  with  any  dangerous  villain  or  con- 
spirator; and  that  soon  evei*ytliing  would  be  cleared  up,  and 
perhaps  he  himself  present  him.self  at  New  Place,  witli  Ben  Jon- 
sou's  letter  in  his  hand.  So  she  was  in  a  cheerful  enough 
frame  of  mind  when  she  arrived  at  the  cottage. 

This  was  a  picturesque  little  building  of  brick  and  .timber, 
with  a  substantial  roof  of  thatch,  and  irregularly  placed  small 
windows;  and  it  was  prettily  set  in  front  of  a  wild  and  varie- 
gated garden,  and  of  course  all  the  golden  glow  of  the  west 


68  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

was  now  flooding  the  place  with  its  beautiful  light,  and  caus- 
ing the  little  rectangular  panes  in  the  open  casements  to  gleam 
like  jewels.  And  here,  at  the  wooden  gate  of  the  gai'den,  was 
Willie  Hart,  who  seemed  to  have  been  using  the  time  profit- 
ably, for  he  had  a  most  diverse  and  sweet-scented  gathering  of 
flowers  and  herbs  of  a  humble  and  familiar  kind — forget-me- 
nots,  and  pansies,  and  wall-flower,  and  mint,  and  sweet-brier, 
and  the  like — to  present  to  his  pretty  cousin. 

"Well  done,  sweetheart !  and  are  all  these  for  me?"  said 
she,  as  she  passed  within  the  little  gate,  and  stood  for  a  moment 
arranging  and  regarding  them.  "  What,  then,  what  is  this  ? — 
what  mean  you  by  it,  Cousin  Willie  ?" 

"By  what.  Cousin  Judith  ?"  said  the  small  boy,  looking  up 
with  his  wondering  and  wistful  eyes. 

"Why,"  said  she,  gayly,  "this  pansy  that  you  have  put 
fair  in  the  front.     Know  you  not  the  name  of  it  ?" 

"Indeed  I  know  it  not,  Cousin  Judith." 

"Ah,  you  cunning  one!  well  you  know  it,  I'll  be  sworn! 
Why,  'tis  one  of  the  chiefest  favorites  everywhere.  Did  you 
never  hear  it  called  'kiss-me-at-the-gate'?  Marry,  'tis  an  ex- 
cellent name ;  and  if  I  take  you  at  your  word,  little  sweet- 
heart?" 

And  so  they  went  into  the  cottage  together;  and  she  had 
her  arm  lying  lightly  round  his  neck. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A  QUARREL. 

But  instantly  her  manner  changed.  Just  within  the  door- 
way of  the  passage  that  cut  the  rambling  cottage  into  two 
halves,  and  attached  to  a  string  that  was  tied  to  the  handle  of 
the  door,  lay  a  small  spaniel-gentle,  peacefully  snoozing;  and 
well  Judith  knew  that  the  owner  of  the  dog  (which  she  had 
heard,  indeed,  was  meant  to  be  presented  to  herself)  was  in- 
side. However,  there  was  no  retreat  possible!  if  retreat  she 
would  have  preferred ;  for  here  was  the  aged  grandmother — a 
little  old  woman,  with  fresh  pink  cheeks,  silver-white  hair, 
and  keen  eyes — come  out  to  see  if  it  were  Judith's  footsteps 


t= 


EE 
K 

V. 

> 


A  QUARREL.  71 

she  had  heard;  and  she  was  kindly  in  her  welcome  of  the 
girl,  though  usually  she  grumbled  a  good  deal  about  her,  and 
would  maintain  that  it  was  pure  pride  and  willfulness  that 
kept  her  from  getting  married. 

"Here  be  finery!"  said  she,  stepping  back  as  if  to  gain  a 
fairer  view.  "God's  mercy,  wench,  have  you  come  to  your 
senses  at  last  ? — be  you  seeking  a  husband  ? — would  you  win 
one  of  them  ?  They  have  waited  a  goodly  time  for  the  bating 
of  your  pride;  but  you  must  after  them  at  last — ay,  ay,  I 
thought  'twould  come  to  that." 

"Good  grandmother,  you  give  me  no  friendly  welcome," 
said  Judith.  "  And  Willie  here;  have  you  no  word  for  him, 
that  he  is  come  to  see  how  you  do  ?" 

"Nay,  come  in,  then,  sweetings  both;  come  in  and  sit  ye 
down:  little  Willie  has  been  in  the  garden  long  enough, 
though  you  know  I  grudge  you  not  the  flowers,  wench.  Ay, 
ay,  there  is  one  within,  Judith,  that  would  fain  be  a  nearer 
neighbor,  as  I  hear,  if  you  would  but  say  yea;  and  bethink  ye, 
wench,  an  apple  may  hang  too  long  on  the  bough — your  brav- 
ery may  be  jiut  on  to  catch  the  eye  when  it  is  overlate — " 

"  I  pray  you,  good  grandmother,  forbear,"  said  Judith,  with 
some  asperity.     "  I  have  my  own  mind  about  such  things." 

"  All's  well,  wench,  all's  well,"  said  the  old  dame,  as  she  led 
the  way  into  the  main  room  of  the  cottage.  It  was  a  wide 
and  spacious  apartment,  with  heavy  black  beams  overhead,  a 
mighty  fire-place,  here  or  there  a  window  in  the  walls  just 
as  it  seemed  to  have  been  wanted,  and  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor  a  plain  old  table,  on  which  were  placed  a  jug  and  two  or 
three  horn  tumblers. 

Of  course  Judith  knew  whom  she  had  to  expect:  the  pres- 
ence of  the  little  spaniel-gentle  at  the  door  had  told  her  that. 
This  young  fellow  that  now  quickly  rose  from  his  chair  and 
came  forward  to  meet  her — "Good-even  to  you,  Judith,"  said 
he,  in  a  humble  way,  and  his  eyes  seemed  to  beseech  her  favor 
^was  as  yet  but  in  his  two-and-twentieth  year,  but  his  tall  and 
lithe  and  niuscuku-  figure  had  already  the  firm  set  of  manhood 
on  it.  He  was  spare  of  form  and  square-shouldered ;  his  head 
smallish,  his  brown  hair  short;  his  features  were  regular,  and 
the  forehead,  if  not  high,  was  square  and  firm;  the  general 
look  of  him  was  suggestive  of  a  sculptured  Greek  or  Roman 


72  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

wrestler,  but  that  tliis  deprecating  glance  of  the  eyes  was  not 
quite  consistent.  And,  to  tell  the  truth,  wrestling  and  his 
firm-sinewed  figure  had  something  to  do  with  his  exti-eme  hu- 
mility on  this  occasion.  He  was  afraid  that  Judith  had  heard 
something.  To  have  broken  the  head  gf  a  tapster  was  not  a 
noble  performance,  no  matter  how  the  quarrel  was  forced  on 
him;  and  this  Avas  but  the  most  recent  of  several  squabbles; 
for  the  championship  in  the  athletic  sports  of  a  country  neigh- 
borhood is  productive  of  rivals,  who  may  take  many  ways  of 
provoking  anger.  "Good-even  to  you,  Judith,"  said  he,  as  if 
he  really  would  have  said,  "Pray  you  believe  not  all  the  ill 
you  hear  of  me !"  Judith,  however,  did  not  betray  anything  by 
her  manner,  which  was  friendly  enough  in  a  kind  of  formal 
way,  and  distinctly  reserved.  She  sat  down,  and  asked  her 
grandmother  what  news  she  had  of  the  various  members  of 
the  family,  that  now  were  widely  scattered  throughout  War- 
wickshire. She  declined  the  cup  of  merry-go-dow^n  that  the 
young  man  civilly  offered  to  her.  She  had  a  store  of  things 
to  tell  about  her  father ;  and  about  the  presents  he  had  brought ; 
and  about  the  two  pieces  of  song-music  that  Master  Robert 
Johnson  had  sent,  that  her  father  would  have  Susan  try  over 
on  the  lute ;  and  the  other  twenty  acres  that  were  to  be  added ; 
and  the  talk  there  had  been  of  turning  the  house  opposite  New 
Place,  at  the  corner  of  Chapel  Street  and  Scholars  Lane,  into  a 
tavern,  and  how  that  had  happily  been  abandoned — for  her  fa- 
ther wanted  no  tavern-revelry  within  hearing;  and  so  forth; 
but  all  this  was  addressed  to  the  grandmother.  The  young 
man  got  scarce  a  word,  though  now  and  again  he  would  inter- 
pose gently,  and,  as  it  were,  begging  her  to  look  his  way.  She 
was  far  kinder  to  Willie  Hart,  who  was  standing  by  her  side; 
for  sometimes  she  would  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  or  stroke 
his  long  yellow-brown  hair. 

"Willie  says  he  will  have  just  such  another  as  I,  grandmo- 
ther," said  she,  when  these  topics  were  exhausted,  "to  be  his 
sweetheart  when  he  grows  up;  so  you  see  there  be  some  that 
value  me." 

"Look  to  it  that  you  be  not  yourself  unmarried  then,  Ju- 
dith," said  the  old  dame,  who  was  never  done  grumbling  on 
this  account.  "I  should  not  marvel;  they  that  refuse  when 
they  are  sought  come  in  time  to  wonder  that  there  are  none  to 


A  QUARREL.  73 


seek— nay,  'tis  so,  I  warrant  you.     You  are  hanging  late  on 
the  bough,  wench ;  see  you  be  not  forgotten." 

"But,  good  grandmother,"  said  Judith,  with  some  color  in 
her  cheeks  (for  this  was  an  awkward  topic  in  the  presence  of 
this  youth),  "would  you  have  me  break  from  the  rule  of  the 
family  ?  My  mother  was  six-and-twenty  when  she  married, 
and  Susan  four-and-twenty ;  and  indeed  there  might  come  one 
of  us  who  did  not  perceive  the  necessity  of  marrying  at  all." 

"In  God's  name,  if  that  be  your  mind,  wench,  hold  to  it. 
Hold  to  it,  I  say !"  And  then  the  old  dame  glanced  with  her 
sharp  eyes  at  the  pretty  costume  of  her  visitor.  ' '  But  I  had  oth- 
er thoughts  when  I  saw  such  a  fine  young  madam  at  the  door ; 
in  truth,  they  befit  you  well,  these  braveries;  indeed  they  do; 
though  'tis  a  pity  to  have  them  bedecking  out  one  that  is  above 
the  maiTying  trade.  But  take  heed,  wench,  take  heed  lest  you 
change  your  mind  when  it  is  too  late:  the  young  men  may 
hold  you  to  your  word,  and  you  find  youi"self  forsaken  when 
you  least  expected  it." 

"  Give  ye  thanks  for  your  good  comfort,  grandmother,"  said 
Judith,  indifferently.  And  then  she  rose.  "Come,  Willie, 
'tis  about  time  we  were  going  through  the  fields  to  the  town. 
What  message  have  you,  grandmother,  for  my  father  ?  He  is 
busy  from  morning  till  night  since  his  coming  home;  but  I 
know  he  will  be  over  to  visit  you  soon.  The  flowei*s,  Willie — 
did  you  leave  them  on  the  bench  outside  ?" 

But  she  was  not  allowed  to  depart  in  this  fashion.  The  old 
dame's  discontents  with  her  pretty  granddaughter — that  was 
now  grown  into  so  fair  and  blithe  a  young  woman — were  never 
of  a  lasting  nature;  and  now  she  would  have  both  Judith  and 
little  Willie  taste  of  some  gingerbread  of  her  own  baking,  and 
then  Judith  had  again  to  refuse  a  sup  of  the  ale  that  stood  on  the 
table,  preferring  a  little  water  instead.  Moreover,  Avhen  they 
had  got  out  into  the  garden,  behold!  tliis  young  man  Avould 
come  also,  to  convoy  them  home  on  their  way  across  the  fields. 
It  was  a  gracious  evening,  sweet  and  cool ;  there  was  a  clear 
twilight  shining  over  the  land;  tlie  elms  were  dark  against  the 
palely  luminous  sky.  And  then,  as  the  three  of  them  went 
across  the  meadows  toward  Stratford  town,  little  Willie  Hart 
was  intrusted  with  the  care  of  the  spaniel-gentle— tliat  Avas 
young  and  wayward,  and  possessed  with  a  matl  purpose  of 


74  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

hunting  sparrows — and  as  the  dog  kept  him  running  this  way 
and  that,  he  was  mostly  at  some  distance  from  these  other  two, 
and  Judith's  companion,  young  Quiney,  had  every  opportunity 
of  speaking  with  her. 

"I  sent  you  a  message,  Judith," said  he,  rather  timidly,  but 
anxiously  watching  the  expression  of  her  face  all  the  time,  "a 
token  of  remembrance :  I  trust  it  did  not  displease  you  ?" 

"You  should  have  considered  through  whose  hands  it  would 
come,"  said  she,  but  without  regarding  him. 

"  How  so  ?"  he  asked,  in  some  surpi'ise. 

"  Why,  you  knew  that  Prudence  would  have  to  read  it." 

"  And  why  not,  Judith  ?  Why  should  she  not  ?  She  is  your 
friend;  and  I  care  not  who  is  made  aware  that — that — well, 
you  know  what  I  mean,  dear  Judith,  but  I  fear  to  anger  you 
by  saying  it.     You  were  not  always  so  hard  to  j)lease." 

There  was  a  touch  of  reproach  in  this  that  she  did  not  like. 
Besides,  was  it  fair  ?  Of  course  she  had  been  kinder  to  him 
when  he  was  a  mere  stripling — when  they  were  boy  and  girl 
together ;  but  now  he  had  put  forth  other  pretensions ;  and  they 
stood  on  a  quite  different  footing;  and  in  his  pertinacity  he 
would  not  understand  why  she  was  always  speaking  to  him 
of  Prudence  Shawe,  and  extolling  her  gentleness  and  sweet 
calm  wisdom  and  goodness.  "The  idle  boy!"  she  would  say 
to  herself;  "why  did  God  give  him  such  a  foolish  head  that 
he  must  needs  come  fancying  nie?"  And  sometimes  she  was 
angry  because  of  his  dullness  and  that  he  would  not  see; 
though,  indeed,  she  could  not  speak  quite  plainly. 

"You  should  think,"  said  she,  on  this  occasion, with  some 
sharpness,  "that  these  idle  verses  that  you  send  me  are  read  by 
Prudence.     Well,  doubtless,  she  may  not  heed  that — " 

"Why  should  she  heed,  Judith?"  said  he.  "'Tis  but  an 
innocent  part  she  takes  in  the  matter — a  kindness,  merely." 

She  dared  not  say  more,  and  she  was  vexed  with  him  for 
putting  this  restraint  upon  her.  She  turned  upon  him  with  a 
glance  of  sudden  and  rather  unfriendly  scrutiny. 

' '  What  is  this  now  that  I  hear  of  you  ?"  said  she.  ' '  Anoth- 
er brawl!  A  tavern  brawl!  I  marvel  you  have  escaped  so 
long  with  a  whole  skin." 

"I  know  not  who  carries  tales  of  me  to  you,  Judith,"  said 
he,  quite  warmly,  "but  if  you  yourself  were  more  friendly 


A  QUARREL,  75 

you  would  take  care  to  choose  a  more  friendly  messenger.  It 
is  always  the  worst  that  you  hear.  If  there  was  a  brawl,  it 
was  none  of  my  seeking.  And  if  my  skin  is  whole,  I  thank 
God  I  can  look  after  that  for  myself;  I  am  not  one  that  will 
be  smitten  on  one  cheek  and  turn  the  other — like  your  parson 
friend." 

This  did  not  mend  matters  much. 

"My  parson  friend  ?"  said  she,  with  some  swift  color  in  lier 
cheeks.  "My  parson  friend  is  one  that  has  respect  for  his 
office,  and  has  a  care  for  his  reputation,  and  lives  a  peaceable, 
holy  life.  Would  you  have  him  frequent  ale-houses,  and  fight 
with  drawers  and  tapsters  ?  Marry  and  amen !  but  I  find  no 
fault  with  the  parson's  life." 

"  Nay,  that  is  true,  indeed,"  >said  he,  bitterly:  "you  can  find 
no  fault  in  the  parson — as  every  one  says.  But  there  are  oth- 
ers who  see  with  other  eyes,  and  would  tell  you  in  what  he 
might  amend — " 

' '  I  care  not  to  know, "  said  she. 

"It  were  not  amiss,"  said  he,  for  he  was  determined  to 
speak — "it  were  not  amiss  if  Sir  Parson  showed  a  little  more 
honesty  in  his  daily  walk — that  wei*e  not  amiss,  for  one  thing." 

"In  what  is  he  dishonest,  then?"  said  she,  instantly,  and 
she  turned  and  faced  him  with  indignant  eyes. 

Well,  he  did  not  quail.  His  blood  was  up.  This  champion- 
sliip  of  the  parson,  tliat  he  had  scarce  expected  of  her,  only 
fired  anew  certain  secret  suspicions  of  his;  and  he  had  no  mind 
to  spare  his  rival,  whether  he  were  absent  or  no. 

"Why,  then,  does  he  miscall  the  King,  and  eat  the  King's 
bread  ?"  said  he,  somewliat  hotly.  "  Is  it  honest  to  conform  in 
public,  and  revile  in  private  ?  I  say,  let  him  go  forth,  as  oth- 
ers have  been  driven  forth,  if  the  state  of  affairs  content  him 
not.  I  say  that  they  who  speak  against  the  King — marry,  it 
were  well  done  to  chop  the  rogues'  ears  off ! — I  say  they  should 
be  ashamed  to  eat  tlie  King's  bread." 

"He  eats  no  King's  bread !"  said  Judith — and  alas !  her  eyes 
liad  a  look  in  them  that  pierced  him  to  the  heart:  it  was  not 
the  glance  he  would  fain  have  met  with  there.  ' '  He  eats  the 
bread  of  the  Church,  that  has  been  despoiled  of  its  possessions 
again  and  again  by  the  Crown  and  the  lords;  and  why  sliould 
he  go  forth  ?     He  is  a  minister:  ia  there  harm  that  he  should 


I 


76  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

wish  to  see  the  services  reformed  ?  He  is  at  his  post ;  would 
yea  have  him  desert  it,  or  else  keep  silent  ?  No,  he  is  no  such 
coward,  I  warrant  you.  He  will  speak  his  mind ;  it  were  ill 
done  of  him  else !" 

"Nay,  he  can  do  no  harm  at  all — in  your  judgment,"  said 
he,  somewhat  sullenly,  "if  all  be  true  that  they  say." 

"And  who  is  it,  then,  that  should  speak  of  idle  tales  and  the 
believing  of  them  ?"  said  she,  with  indignant  reproach.  "You 
say  I  welcome  evil  stories  about  you  ?  And  you  ?  Are  you  so 
quick  to  put  away  the  idle  gossip  they  bring  you  about  me  ? 
Would  you  not  rather  believe  it  ?  I  trow  you  would  as  lief  be- 
lieve it  as  not.  That  it  is  to  have  friends !  That  it  is  to  have 
those  who  should  defend  you  in  your  absence ;  but  would  rath- 
er listen  to  slander  against  you !  But  when  they  speak  about 
women's  idle  tongues,  they  know  little ;  it  is  men  who  are  the 
readiest  to  listen,  and  to  carry  evil  report  and  lying!" 

"I  meant  not  to  anger  you,  Judith, "said  he,  more  humbly. 

"Yes,  but  you  have  angered  me, "said  she  (with  her  lips  be- 
coming tremulous,  but  only  for  a  second).  "What  concern 
have  I  with  Parson  Blaise  ?  I  would  they  that  speak  against 
him  were  as  good  men  and  honest  as  he — " 

"Indeed,  they  speak  no  ill  of  him,  Judith," said  he  (for  he 
was  grieved  that  they  were  fallen  out  so,  and  there  was  no- 
thing he  would  not  have  retracted  that  so  he  might  win  back 
to  her  favor  again,  in  however  small  a  degree),  "except  that 
he  is  disputatious,  and  would  lead  matters  no  one  knows  whith- 
er. 'Tis  but  a  few  minutes  ago  that  your  grandmother  there 
was  saying  that  we  should  never  have  peace  and  quiet  in 
Church  affairs  till  the  old  faith  was  restored — " 

Here,  indeed,  she  pricked  up  her  ears ;  but  she  would  say  no 
more.  She  had  not  forgiven  him  yet ;  and  she  was  proud  and 
silent. 

"And  though  I  do  not  hold  with  that — for  there  would  be  a 
bloody  struggle  before  the  Pope  could  be  master  in  England 
again — nevertheless,  I  would  have  the  ministers  men  of  peace, 
as  they  profess  to  be,  and  loyal  to  the  King,  who  is  at  the 
head  of  the  Church  as  well  as  of  thfe  realm.  However,  let  it 
pass.     I  wish  to  have  no  quarrel  with  you,  Judith." 

"  How  does  your  business  V  said  she,  abruptly  changing  the 
subject. 


A  QUARREL.  77 

"Well — excellently  well;  it  is  not  in  that  direction  that  I 
have  any  anxiety  about  the  future." 

"  Do  you  give  it  your  time  ?  You  were  best  take  heed,  for 
else  it  is  like  to  slip  away  from  you,"  she  said;  and  he  thought 
she  spoke  rather  coldly,  and  as  if  her  warning  were  meant 
to  convey  something  more  than  appeared. 

And  then  she  added : 

"You  were  at  Wilmecote  on  Tuesday?" 

"  You  must  have  heard  whj^,  Judith,"  he  said.  "Old  Pike 
was  married  again  that  day,  and  they  would  have  me  over 
to  his  wedding." 

"And  on  the  Wednesday,  what  was  there  at  Bidford,  then, 
that  you  must  needs  be  gone  when  my  mother  sent  to  you  ?" 

"At  Bidford  ?"  said  he  (and  he  was  sorely  puzzled  as  to 
whether  he  should  rejoice  at  these  questions  as  betraying  a 
friendly  interest  in  his  affairs,  or  rather  regard  them  as  convey- 
ing covert  reproof,  and  expressing  her  dissatisfaction  with  him, 
and  distrust  of  him).  "At  Bidford,  Judith — well,  there  was 
business  as  well  as  pleasure  there.  For  you  must  know  that 
Daniel  Hutt  is  come  home  for  a  space  from  the  new  settlements 
in  Virginia,  and  is  for  taking  back  with  him  a  number  of  la- 
borers that  are  all  in  due  time  to  make  their  fortunes  there. 
Marry,  'tis  a  good  chance  for  some  of  them,  for  broken  men 
are  as  welcome  as  any,  and  there  are  no  questions  asked  as 
to  their  having  been  intimate  with  the  constable  and  the  jus- 
tice. So  there  was  a  kind  of  merry-meeting  of  Daniel's  old 
friends,  that  was  held  at  the  Falcon  at  Bidford — and  the  host  is 
a  good  customer  of  mine,  so  it  was  prudent  of  me  to  go  thither 
— and  right  pleasant  was  it  to  hear  Daniel  Hutt  tell  of  his  ad- 
ventures by  sea  and  shore.  And  be  gave  us  some  of  the  to- 
bacco that  he  had  brought  with  him.  And  to  any  that  will  go 
back  with  him  to  Jamestown  he  promises  allotments  of  land, 
though  at  first  there  will  be  tough  labor,  as  he  says,  honestly. 
Oh,  a  worthy  man  is  this  Daniel  Hutt,  though  as  yet  his  own 
fortune  .seems  not  so  secure." 

"With  such  junketings,"  said  she,  with  ever  so  slight  a  touch 
of  coldness,  "'tis  no  wonder  you  could  not  spare  the  time  to 
come  and  sec  my  father  on  the  evening  of  his  getting  home." 

"There,  now,  Judith!"  he  exclaimed.  "  Would  you  have 
me  break  in  upon  him  at  such  a  busy  season,  when  oven  you 


78  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

yourselves  are  careful  to  refrain  ?  It  had  been  ill-mannered 
of  me  to  do  such  a  thing;  but  'twas  no  heedlessness  that  led 
to  my  keeping  away,  as  you  may  well  imagine." 

"It  is  difficult  to  know  the  reasons  when  friends  hold 
aloof,"  said  she.  "You  have  not  been  near  the  house  for  two 
or  three  weeks,  as  I  reckon." 

And  here  again  he  would  have  given  much  to  know  whether 
her  speech — which  was  curiously  reserved  in  tone — meant  that 
she  had  marked  these  things  out  of  regard  for  him,  or  that 
she  wished  to  reprove  him. 

"  I  can  give  you  the  reasons  for  that,  Judith,"  said  this  tall 
and  straight  young  fellow,  who  from  time  to  time  regarded 
his  companion's  face  with  some  solicitude,  as  if  he  fain  would 
have  found  some  greater  measure  of  friendliness  there.  "I 
have  not  been  often  to  New  Place  of  late  because  of  one  I 
thought  I  might  meet  there  who  would  be  no  better  pleased 
to  see  me  than  I  him;  and — and  perhaps  because  of  another — 
that  I  did  not  know  whether  she  might  be  the  better  i^leased 
to  have  me  there  or  find  me  stay  away — " 

"Your  reasons  are  too  fine,"  said  she.  "I  scarce  under- 
stand them." 

"That  is  because  you  won't  understand;  I  think  I  have 
spoken  plain  enough  ere  now,  Judith,  I  make  bold  to  say." 

She  flushed  somewhat  at  this ;  but  it  was  no  longer  in  anger. 
She  seemed  willing  to  be  on  good  terms  with  him,  but  always 
in  that  measured  and  distant  way. 

"  Willie !"  she  called.      "  Come  hither,  sweetheart !" 

With  some  difficulty  her  small  cousin  made  his  way  back 
to  her,  dragging  the  reluctant  spaniel  so  that  its  head  seemed 
to  be  in  jeopardy. 

" He  ivill  go  after  the  birds.  Cousin  Judith;  you  will  never 
teach  him  to  follow  you." 

"I?"  she  said. 

"Willie  knows  I  want  you  to  have  the  dog,  Judith,"  her 
companion  said,  quickly.  "  I  got  him  for  you  when  I  was  at 
Gloucester.  'Tis  a  good  breed— true  Maltese,  I  can  warrant 
him ;  and  the  fashionable  ladies  will  scarce  stir  abroad  without 
one  to  follow  them,  or  to  carry  with  them  in  their  coaches 
when  they  ride.     Will  you  take  him,  Judith  ?" 

She  was  a  little  embari*assed. 


A  QUARREL,  79 

" 'Tis  a  pretty  present,"  said  she,  "but  you  have  not  chosen 
the  right  one  to  give  it  to." 

"  What  mean  you  ?"  said  he. 

"Nay,  now,  have  not  I  the  Don  ?"  she  said,  with  greater 
courage.  "He  is  a  sufficient  companion  if  I  wish  to  walk 
abroad.  Why  should  you  not  give  this  little  spaniel  to  one 
that  has  no  such  companion — I  mean  to  Prudence  Shawe  ?" 

"To  Prudence!"  said  he,  regarding  her;  for  this  second  in- 
troduction of  Judith's  friend  seemed  strange,  as  well  as  the  no- 
tion that  he  should  transfer  this  prized  gift  to  her. 

"There,  now,  is  one  so  gentle  and  kind  to  every  one  and  ev- 
erything that  she  would  tend  the  little  creature  with  care," 
she  continued.     ' '  It  would  be  more  fitting  for  her  than  for  me." 

"  You  could  be  kind  enough,  Judith — if  you  chose,"  said  he, 
under  his  breath,  for  Willie  Hart  was  standing  by. 

"Nay,  I  have  the  Don,"  said  she,  "that  is  large,  and  world- 
ly, and  serious,  and  clumsy  withal.  Give  this  little  playfel- 
low to  Prudence,  who  is  small  and  neat  and  gentle  like  itself; 
surely  that  were  fitter." 

"I  had  hoped  you  would  have  accepted  the  little  spaniel 
from  me,  Judith,"  said  he,  with  very  obvious  disappointment. 

"Moreover,"  said  she,  lightly,  "two  of  a  trade  would  never 
agree:  we  should  have  this  one  and  the  Don  continually  quar- 
relling, and  sooner  or  later  the  small  one  would  lose  its  head 
in  the  Don's  great  jaws." 

"Why,  the  mastiff  is  always  chained,  and  at  the  barn  gate, 
Judith,"  said  he.  "This  one  would  be  within-doors,  as  your 
playfellow.     But  I  care  not  to  press  a  gift." 

"Nay,  now,  be  not  displeased,"  said  she,  gently  enough. 
"I  am  not  untbankf ul ;  I  think  well  of  your  kindness;  but  it 
were  still  better  done  if  you  were  to  change  your  intention 
and  give  the  spaniel  to  one  that  would  have  a  gentler  charge 
over  it,  and  tliink  none  the  less  of  it,  as  I  can  vouch  for.  Pray 
you  give  it  to  Prudence." 

"  A  discarded  gift  is  not  worth  the  passing  on, "said  he;  and 
as  they  were  now  come  quite  near  to  the  town,  where  there 
was  a  dividing  of  ways,  he  stopped  as  though  he  would  shake 
hands  and  depart. 

"  Will  you  not  go  on  to  the  house?  You  have  not  seen  my 
father  since  his  coming  home,"  she  said. 


80  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

"No,  not  to-night,  Judith," he  said.  "Doubtless  he  is  still 
busy,  and  I  have  affairs  elsewhere." 

She  glanced  at  him  with  one  of  those  swift  keen  glances  of 
Mievs. 

' '  Where  go  you  to  spend  the  evening,  if  I  may  make  so 
bold  ?"  she  said. 

"  Not  at  the  ale-house,  as  you  seem  to  suspect,"  he  answered, 
with  just  a  trifle  of  bitterness;  and  then  he  took  the  string  to 
lead  away  the  s^Daniel,  and  bade  her  farewell — in  a  kind  of  half- 
hearted and  disappointed  and  downcast  way — and  left. 

She  looked  after  him  for  a  second  or  so,  as  she  fastened 
a  glove-button  that  had  got  loose.  And  then  she  sighed  as 
she  turned  away. 

"Sweetheart  Willie,"  said  she,  i^utting  her  hand  softly  on 
the  boy's  shoulder,  as  he  walked  beside  her,  ' '  I  think  you  said 
you  loved  me  ?" 

"Why,  you  know  I  do.  Cousin  Judith,"  said  he. 

"  What  a  pity  it  is,  then,"  said  she,  absently,  "that  you  can 
not  remain  always  as  you  are,  and  keep  your  ten  years  for- 
ever and  a  day,  so  that  we  should  always  be  friends  as  we  are 
now!" 

He  did  not  quite  know  what  she  meant,  but  he  was  suflB- 
ciently  well  pleased  and  contented  when  he  was  thus  close  by 
her  side ;  and  when  her  hand  was  on  his  shoulder  or  on  his  neck 
it  was  to  him  no  burden,  but  a  delight.  And  so  walking  to- 
gether, and  with  some  gay  and  careless  prattle  between  them, 
they  went  on  and  into  the  town. 


THROUGH  THE  MEADOWS.  81 


CHAPTER  IX.  1 

THROUGH  THE  MEADOWS. 

Some  two  or  three  clays  after  that,  and  toward  the  evening'. 
Prudence  Shawe  was  in  the  church-yard,  and  she  was  alone, 
save  that  now  and  again  some  one  might  pass  along  the  grav- 
elled pathway,  and  these  did  not  stay  to  interrupt  her.  She 
had  with  her  a  basket,  partly  filled  with  flowers,  also  a  small 
rake  and  a  pair  of  gardener's  sheare,  and  she  was  engaged 
in  going  from  grave  to  grave,  here  putting  a  few  fresh  blos- 
soms to  replace  the  withered  ones,  and  there  removing  weeds, 
or  cutting  the  gi*ass  smooth,  and  generally  tending  those  last 
resting-places  with  a  patient  and  loving  care.  It  was  a  fa- 
vorite employment  with  her  when  she  had  a  spare  afternoon ; 
nor  did  she  limit  her  attention  to  the  graves  of  those  whom  she 
had  known  in  life;  her  charge  was  a  general  one,  and  when 
they  who  had  friends  or  relatives  buried  there  came  to  the 
church  of  a  Sunday  morning,  and  perhaps  from  some  distance, 
and  when  they  saw  that  some  gentle  hand  had  been  employed 
there  in  the  interval,  they  knew  right  well  that  that  hand  was 
the  hand  of  Prudence  Shawe.  It  was  a  strange  fancy  on  the 
part  of  one  who  was  so  averse  from  all  ornament  or  decoration 
in  ordinary  life  that  nothing  was  too  beautiful  for  a  grave. 
She  herself  would  not  wear  a  flower,  but  her  best,  and  the  best 
she  could  beg  or  borrow  anywhere,  she  freely  gave  to  those 
that  were  gone  away ;  she  seemed  to  have  some  vague  imagi- 
nation that  our  poor  human  nature  was  not  worthy  of  this  beau- 
tifying care  until  it  had  become  sanctified  by  the  sad  mystery 
of  death. 

It  was  a  calm,  golden- white  evening,  peaceful  and  silent; 
the  rooks  were  cawing  in  the  dark  elms  above  her;  the  swallows 
dipping  and  darting  under  the  boughs ;  the  smooth-flowing 
yellow  river  was  like  glass,  save  that  now  and  again  the  per- 
fect surface  was  broken  by  the  rising  of  a  fish.  Over  there  in 
the  wide  meadows  beyond  the  stream  a  number  of  boys  were 
playing  at  rounders,  or  prisoiicr's-base,  or  some  sucli  noisy 
game;  but  the  sound  of  their  shoutiug  was  softened  by  the  dis- 

4 


82  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

tance;  so  quiet  was  it  here,  as  she  continued  at  her  pious  task, 
that  she  might  ahnost  have  heard  herself  breathing.  And 
once  or  twice  she  looked  up,  and  glanced  toward  the  little 
gate  as  if  expecting  some  one. 

It  was  Judith,  of  course,  that  she  was  expecting;  and  at  this 
moment  Judith  was  coming  along  to  the  church-yard  to  seek 
her  out.  What  a  contrast  there  was  between  these  two — this 
one  pale  and  gentle  and  sad  -  eyed,  stooping  over  the  mute 
graves  in  the  shadow  of  the  elms;  that  other  comiiag  along 
through  the  warm  evening  light  with  all  her  usual  audacity 
of  gait,  the  peach-bloom  of  health  on  her  cheek,  carelessness 
and  content  in  her  clear-shining  eyes,  and  the  tune  of  "Green 
Sleeves"  ringing  through  a  perfectly  idle  brain.  Indeed,  what 
part  of  her  brain  may  not  have  been  perfectly  idle  was  bent 
solely  on  mischief.  Prudence  had  been  away  for  two  or  three 
days,  staying  with  an  ailing  sister.  All  that  story  of  the  ad- 
venture with  the  unfortunate  young  gentleman  had  still  to  be 
related  to  her.  And  again  and  again  Judith  had  pictured  to 
herself  Prudence's  alarm  and  the  look  of  her  timid  eyes  when 
she  should  hear  of  such  doings,  and  had  resolved  that  the 
tale  would  lose  nothing  in  the  telling.  Here,  indeed,  was 
something  for  two  country  maidens  to  talk  about.  The  even 
current  of  their  lives  was  broken  but  by  few  surprises;  but 
here  was  something  more  than  a  surprise  —  something  with 
suggestions  of  mystery  and  even  danger  behind  it.  This  was 
no  mere  going  out  to  meet  a  wizard.  Any  farm  wench  might 
have  an  experience  of  that  kind ;  any  plough-boy,  deluded  by 
the  hope  of  digging  up  silver  in  one  of  his  master's  fields. 
But  a  gentleman  in  hiding — one  that  had  been  at  court — one 
that  had  seen  the  King  sitting  in  his  chair  of  state,  while  Ben 
Jonson's  masque  was  opened  out  before  the  great  and  noble 
assemblage — this  was  one  to  speak  about,  truly,  one  whose  for- 
tunes and  circumstances  were  like  to  prove  a  matter  of  end- 
less speculation  and  curiosity. 

But  when  Judith  drew  near  to  the  little  gate  of  the  church- 
yard, and  saw  how  Prudence  was  occupied,  her  heart  smote  her. 

Green  sleeves  was  all  my  joy, 
Green  sleeves  was  my  delight, 

went  clean  out  of  her  liead.     There  was  a  kind  of  shame  on 


THROUGH  THE  MEADOWS,  83 

her  face;  and  when  she  went  along  to  her  friend  she  could 
not  help  exclaiming,  "  How  good  you  are,  Prue !" 

"I  ?''  said  the  other,  with  some  touch  of  wonder  in  the  up- 
turned face.     ' '  I  fear  that  can  not  be  said  of  any  of  us,  Judith. " 

"  I  would  I  were  like  you,  sweetheart,"  was  the  answer,  with 
a  bit  of  a  sigh. 

"Like  me,  Judith?"  said  Prudence,  returning  to  her  task 
(which  was  nearly  ended  now,  for  she  had  but  few  more  flow- 
ers left).  "  Nay,  what  makes  you  think  that?  I  wish  I  were 
far  other  than  I  am." 

"Look,  now,"  Judith  said,  "how  you  are  occupied  at  this 
moment.  Is  there  another  in  Stratfoi'd  that  has  such  a  gen- 
eral kindness  ?  How  many  would  think  of  employing  their 
time  so? — how  many  would  come  away  from  their  own  af- 
fairs— " 

"  It  may  be  I  have  more  idle  time  than  many,"  said  Prudence, 
with  a  slight  flush.  "But  I  commend  not  myself  for  this 
work ;  in  truth,  no ;  'tis  but  a  pa.stime ;  'tis  for  my  own  pleasure. " 

"Indeed,  then,  good  Prue,  you  are  mistaken,  and  that  I  know 
well,"  said  the  other,  peremptorily.  "Your  own  pleasure? 
Is  it  no  pleasure,  then,  think  you,  for  them  that  come  from  time 
to  time,  and  are  right  glad  to  see  that  some  one  has  been  tend- 
ing the  graves  of  their  friends  or  kinsmen  ?  And  do  you 
think,  now,  it  is  no  pleasure  to  the  poor  people  themselves— I 
mean  them  that  are  gone — to  look  at  you  as  you  are  engaged 
so,  and  to  think  that  they  are  not  quite  forgotten  ?  Surely  it 
must  be  a  pleasure  to  them.  Surely  they  can  not  have  lost  all 
their  interest  in  what  happens  here— in  Stratford — where  they 
lived ;  and  surely  they  must  be  grateful  to  you  for  thinking  of 
them,  and  doing  them  this  kindness  ?  I  say  it  were  ill  done  of 
them  else.  I  say  they  ought  to  be  thankful  to  you.  And  no 
doul)t  they  are,  could  we  but  learn." 

"Judith!  Judith!  you  have  such  a  bold  way  of  regarding 
what  is  all  a  mystery  tp  us,"  said  her  gentle-eyed  friend. 
"Sometimes you  frighten  me." 

"I  would  I  knew,  now,"  said  the  other,  looking  absently 
across  the  river  to  the  boys  that  were  playing  there,  "  whether 
my  little  brotlierHamnct — had  you  known  him  you  would  have 
loved  him  as  I  did,  Prudence- 1  .say  I  ^vish  I  knew  whether 
he  is  quite  happy  and  content  where  he  is,  or  whether  he  would 


84  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

not  rather  be  over  there  now  with  the  other  boys.  If  he  looks 
down  and  sees  them,  may  it  not  make  him  sad  sometimes — to 
be  so  far  away  from  us  ?  I  always  think  of  him  as  being  alone 
there,  and  he  was  never  alone  here.  I  suppose  he  thinks  of  us 
sometimes.  Whenever  I  hear  the  boys  shouting  like  that  at 
their  play  I  tliink  of  him  ;  but  indeed  he  was  never  noisy  and 
unruly.  My  father  used  to  call  him  the  girl-boy;  but  he 
was  fonder  of  him  than  of  all  us  others;  he  once  came  all  the 
way  from  London  when  he  heard  that  Hamnet  was  lying  sick 
of  a  fever." 

She  turned  to  see  how  Prudence  was  getting  on  with  her 
work ;  but  she  was  in  no  hurry ;  and  Prudence  was  patient  and 
scrupulously  careful ;  and  the  dead,  had  they  been  able  to 
speak,  would  not  have  bade  her  cease  and  go  away,  for  a  gen- 
tler hand  never  touched  a  grave. 

"I  suppose  it  is  Grandmother  Hathaway  who  will  go  next," 
Judith  continued,  in  the  same  absent  kind  of  way ;  "but  indeed 
she  says  she  is  right  well  content  either  to  go  or  to  stay ;  for 
now,  as  she  says,  she  has  about  as  many  kinsfolk  there  as  here, 
and  she  will  not  be  going  among  strangers.  And  well  I  know 
she  will  make  for  Hamnet  as  soon  as  she  is  there,  for  like  my 
father's  love  for  Bess  Hall  was  her  love  for  the  boy  while  he  was 
with  us.  Tell  me.  Prudence,  has  he  grown  up  to  be  of  my  age  ? 
You  know  we  were  twins.  Is  he  a  man  now,  so  that  we  should 
see  him  as  some  one  different  ?  Or  is  he  still  our  little  Ham- 
net, just  as  we  used  to  know  him  ?" 

"How  can  I  tell  you,  Judith?"  the  other  said,  almost  in 
pain.  "You  ask  such  bold  questions;  and  all  these  things 
are  hidden  fi'om  us  and  behind  a  veil." 

"But  these  are  what  one  would  like  to  know,"  said  Judith, 
with  a  sigh.  "Nay,  if  you  could  but  tell  me  of  such  things, 
then  you  might  persuade  me  to  have  a  greater  regard  for  the 
preachers;  but  when  you  come  and  ask  about  such  real  things, 
they  say  it  is  all  a  mystery ;  they  can  not  tell ;  and  would  have 
;f  ou  be  anxious  about  schemes  of  doctrine,  which  are  but  strings 
of  words.  My  father,  too:  when  I  go  to  him — nay,  but  it  is 
many  a  day  since  I  tried — he  would  look  at  me  and  say, '  What 
is  in  your  brain  now  ?  To  your  needle,  wench,  to  your 
needle !' " 

"But  naturally,  Judith!     Such  things  are  mercifully  hid- 


THROUGH  THE  MEADOWS.  85 

den  from  us  now,  but  they  will  be  revealed  when  it  is  fitting 
for  us  to  know  them.  How  could  our  ordinary  life  be  possible 
if  we  knew  what  was  going  on  in  the  other  world  ?  We  should 
have  no  interest  in  the  things  ar-ound  us,  the  greater  interest 
would  be  so  great." 

' '  Well,  well,  well, "  said  Judith,  coming  with  more  practical 
eyes  to  the  present  moment,  "are  you  finished,  sweet  mouse, 
f!iid  will  you  come  away  ?  What,  not  satisfied  yet  ?  I  wonder 
if  they  kjiow  the  care  you  take  ?  I  wonder  if  one  will  say  to 
the  other:  'Come  and  see.  She  is  there  again.  We  are  not 
quite  forgotten.'  And  will  you  do  that  for  me,  too,  sweet 
Prue  ?  Will  you  put  some  pansies  on  my  grave,  too  ? — and  I 
know  you  will  say  out  of  your  charity,  '  Well,  she  was  not 
good  and  pious,  as  I  would  have  had  her  to  be ;  she  had  plenty 
of  faults;  but  at  least  she  often  wished  to  be  better  than  she 
was.'  Nay,  I  forgot,"  she  added,  glancing  carelessly  over  to 
the  church;  "they  say  we  shall  lie  among  the  great  people, 
since  my  father  bought  the  tithes — that  we  have  the  i^ight  to  be 
buried  in  the  chancel ;  but  indeed  I  know  I  would  a  hundred 
times  liefer  have  my  grave  in  the  open  here,  among  the  grass 
and  the  trees." 

"You  are  too  young  to  have  such  thoughts  as  these,  Ju- 
dith," said  her  companion,  as  she  rose  and  shut  down  the  lid 
of  the  now  empty  basket.     ' '  Come ;  shall  we  go  ?" 

"Let  us  cross  the  foot-bridge,  sweet  Prue,"  Judith  said, 
"and  go  through  the  meadows,  and  round  by  Clopton's  bridge, 
and  so  home;  for  I  have  that  to  tell  you  will  take  some  time: 
pray  Heaven  it  startle  you  not  out  of  your  senses  withal  1" 

It  was  not,  however,  until  they  had  got  away  from  the 
church-yard,  and  were  out  in  the  clear  golden  light  of  the  open, 
that  she  began  to  tell  her  story.  She  had  linked  her  arm  with- 
in that  of  lier  friend.  Her  manner  was  grave ;  and  if  there  was 
any  mischief  in  her  eyes,  it  was  of  a  demure  kind,  not  easily 
detected.  She  confessed  that  it  was  out  of  mere  wanton  folly ' 
that  she  had  gone  to  the  spot  indicated  by  the  wizard,  and  with- 
out any  very  definite  hope  or  belief.  But  as  chance  would  have 
it,  she  did  encounter  a  stranger — one,  indeed,  that  was  coming 
to  her  father's  house.  Then  followed  a  complete  and  minute 
narrative  of  what  the  young  man  had  said — the  glimpses  lie 
had  given  her  of  his  present  condition,  both  on  the  occasion 


86  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

of  that  meeting  and  on  the  subsequent  one,  and  how  she  had 
obtained  his  permission  to  state  these  things  to  this  gentle  gos- 
sip of  hers.  Prudence  listened  in  silence,  her  eyes  cast  down ; 
Judith  could  not  see  the  gathering  concern  on  her  face.  Nay, 
the  latter  spoke  rather  in  a  tone  of  raillery;  for,  having  had 
time  to  look  back  over  the  young  gentleman's  confessions, 
and  his  manner,  and  so  forth,  she  had  arrived  at  a  kind  of  as- 
surance that  he  was  in  no  such  desperate  case.  There  were 
many  reasons  why  a  young  man  might  wish  to  lie  perdu  for 
a  time ;  but  this  one  had  not  talked  as  if  any  very  imminent 
danger  threatened  him ;  at  least,  if  he  had  intimated  as  much, 
the  impression  produced  upon  her  was  not  permanent.  And  if 
Judith  now  told  the  story  with  a  sort  of  careless  bravado — as  if 
going  forth  in  secret  to  meet  this  stranger  was  a  thing  of  risk 
and  hazard — it  was  with  no  private  conviction  that  there  was 
any  particular  peril  in  the  matter,  but  rather  with  the  vague 
fancy  that  the  adventure  looked  daring  and  romantic,  and 
would  appear  as  something  ten-ible  in  the  eyes  of  her  timid 
friend. 

But  what  now  happened  startled  her.  They  were  going 
up  the  steps  of  the  foot-bridge.  Prudence  first,  and  Judith,  fol- 
lowing her,  had  just  got  to  the  end  of  her  story.  Prudence 
suddenly  turned  round,  and  her  face,  now  opposed  to  the  west- 
ering light,  was,  as  Judith  instantly  saw,  quite  aghast. 

"  But,  Judith,  you  do  not  seem  to  understand !"  she  exclaim- 
ed. "Was  not  that  the  very  stranger  the  wizard  said  you 
would  meet  ? — the  very  hour,  the  very  place  ?  In  good  truth, 
it  must  have  been  so  !  Judith,  what  manner  of  man  have 
you  been  in  company  with  ?" 

For  an  instant  a  flush  of  color  overspread  Judith's  face,  and 
she  said,  with  a  sort  of  embarrassed  laugh : 

"Well,  and  if  it  were  so,  sweet  mouse  ?  If  that  were  the 
appointed  one,  what  then  ?" 

She  was  on  the  bridge  now.  Prudence  caught  her  by  both 
hands,  and  there  was  an  anxious  and  piteous  appeal  in  the  lov- 
ing eyes. 

"Dear  Judith,  I  beseech  you, be  warned !  Have  nothing  to 
do  with  the  man  !  Did  I  not  say  that  mischief  would  come  of 
planting  the  charm  in  the  church-yard,  and  shaming  a  sacred 
place  with  such  heathenish  magic  ?     And  now  look  already— 


THERE    WAS    AN    ANXIOIS    AM)    PITVIN<;    AI'I'KAL    IN    THK    LOVING    EYES. 


THROUGH  THE  MEADOWS.  89 

here  is  one  that  you  dare  not  speak  of  to  your  own  people; 
he  is  in  secret  correspondence  with  you.  Heaven  alone  knows 
what  dark  deeds  he  may  be  bent  upon,  or  what  ruin  he  may 
bring  upon  you  and  yours.  Judith,  you  are  light-hearted  and 
daring,  and  you  love  to  be  venturesome;  but  I  know  you  bet- 
ter than  you  know  youi'self ,  sweetheart.  You  would  not  will- 
ingly do  wrong,  or  bring  harm  on  those  that  love  you ;  and 
for  the  sake  of  all  of  us,  Judith,  have  nothing  to  do  with  this 
man." 

Judith  was  embarrassed,  and  perhaps  a  trifle  remorseful : 
she  had  not  exjDected  her  friend  to  take  this  adventure  so  very 
seriously. 

"Dear  Prue,  you  alarm  your.self  without  reason,"  she  said 
(but  there  was  still  some  tell-tale  color  in  her  face).  "  Indeed, 
tliere  is  no  magic  or  witchery  about  the  young  man.  Had  I 
seen  a  ghost,  I  should  have  been  frightened,  no  doubt,  for  all 
that  Don  Roderigo  was  with  me;  and  had  I  met  one  of  the 
Stratford  youths  at  the  appointed  iilace,  I  should  have  said  that 
perha])S  the  good  wizard  had  guessed  well ;  but  this  was  merely 
a  sti'anger  coming  to  see  my  father ;  and  the  chance  that  brought 
us  together — well,  what  magic  Avas  in  that? — it  vrould  have 
happened  to  you  had  you  been  walking  in  the  lane :  do  you  see 
that,  dear  mouse  ? — it  would  have  liappened  to  yourself  had  you 
been  walking  in  the  lane,  and  he  would  have  asked  of  you  the 
question  that  he  asked  of  me.  Nay,  banish  that  fancy,  sweet 
Prue,  else  I  should  be  ashamed  to  do  anything  further  for  the 
young  man  that  is  unfortunate,  and  very  grateful  withal  for  a 
few  words  of  friendliness.  And  so  fairly  spoken  a  young  man, 
too;  and  so  courtly  in  his  bearing;  and  of  such  a  handsome 
presence — " 

"But,  dear  Judith,  listen  to  me!— do  not  be  led  into  such 
peril!  Know  you  not  that  evil  spirits  can  assume  goodly 
shapes— the  Prince  of  Darkness  himself — " 

She  could  not  finish  what  she  had  to  say,  her  imagination 
was  so  filled  with  terror. 

"Sweet  Puritan,"  said  Judith,  with  a  smile,  "  I  know  well 
that  he  goeth  about  like  a  raging  lion,  seeking  whom  he  may 
devour;  I  know  it  well ;  but  believe  me  it  \roukl  not  be  worth 
his  travail  to  haunt  such  a  lonely  and  useless  place  as  the  lane 
that  goes  from  Shottery  to  the  Bidford  road.     Nay,  but  I  will 


90  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

convince  you,  good  mSuse,  by  the  best  of  all  evidence,  that 
there  is  nothing  ghostly  or  evil  about  the  young  man ;  you 
shall  see  him,  Px'ue — indeed  you  must  and  shall.  When  that 
he  comes  back  to  his  hiding,  I  will  contrive  that  you  shall  see 
him  and  have  speech  with  him,  and  sure  you  will  pity  him  as 
much  as  I  do.  Poor  young  gentleman,  that  he  should  be 
suspected  of  being  Satan !  Nay,  how  could  he  be  Satan,  Prue, 
and  be  admitted  to  the  King's  court  ?  Hath  not  our  good  King 
a  powerful  insight  into  the  doings  of  witches  and  wizards  and 
the  like?  and  think  you  he  would  allow  Satan  in  person  to 
come  into  the  very  Banqueting-hall  to  see  a  masque  ?" 

"Judith!  Judith!"  said  the  other,  piteously,  "when  you 
strive  against  me  with  your  wit,  I  can  not  answer  you ;  but 
my  heart  tells  me  that  you  are  in  exceeding  danger.  I  would 
warn  you,  dear  cousin;  I  were  no  true  friend  to  you  else." 

' '  But  you  are  the  best  and  truest  of  friends,  you  dearest 
Prue,"  said  Judith,  lightly,  as  she  released  her  hands  from 
her  companion's  earnest  grasp.  "  Come,  let  us  on,  or  we  shall 
go  supperless  for  the  evening." 

She  passed  along  and  over  the  narrow  bridge,  and  down  the 
steins  on  the  other  side.  She  did  not  seem  much  impressed  by 
Prudence's  entreaties ;  indeed,  she  was  singing  aloud : 

Hey^  good  fellow,  I  drink  to  thee, 
Pardonncz  nioi,  je  vozts  en  prie  ; 
To  all  good  felloim,  wlierier  they  be, 
With  Jiever  a  penny  of  money  ! 

Prudence  overtook  her. 

"Judith,"  said  she,  "even  if  he  be  not  of  that  fearful  kind 
—even  if  he  be  a  real  man,  and  such  as  he  represents  himself, 
bethink  you  what  you  ai'e  doing!  There  may  be  another 
such  gathering  as  that  at  Duuchurch  ;  and  would  you  be  in 
correspondence  with  a  plotter  and  murderer  ?  Nay,  what  was't 
you  asked  of  me  the  other  day  ?"  she  added,  suddenly ;  and 
she  stood  still  to  confront  her  friend,  with  a  new  alarm  in  her 
eyes.  ' '  Did  you  not  ask  whether  your  father  was  well  affected 
toward  the  Papists  ?  Is  there  another  jjlot  ? — another  treason 
against  the  King  ? — and  you  would  harbor  one  connected  with 
such  a  wicked,  godless,  and  blood-thirsty  plan  ?" 

"Nay,  nay,  sweet  mouse!  Have  I  not  told  you?  He  de- 
clares he  has  naught  to  do  with  any  such  enterprise;  and  if 


THROUGH  THE  MEADOWS.  91 

you  would  but  see  him,  Prudence,  you  would  believe  Lira. 
Sure  I  am  that  you  would  believe  him  instantly.  Why,  now, 
there  be  many  reasons  why  a  young  gentleman  might  wish  to 
remain  concealed — " 

"None,  Judith,  none!"  the  other  said,  with  decision. 
"  Why  should  an  honest  man  fear  the  daylight  ?" 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,"  was  the  careless  answer,  "there  be  many 
an  honest  man  that  has  got  into  the  clutches  of  the  twelve-in- 
the-hundred  rogues;  and  when  the  writs  are  out  against  such 
a  one,  I  hold  it  no  shame  that  he  would  rather  be  out  of  the 
way  than  be  thrown  among  the  wretches  in  Bocardo.  I  know 
well  what  I  speak  of ;  many  a  time  have  I  heard  my  father 
and  your  brother  talk  of  it;  how  the  rogues  of  usurers  will 
keep  a  man  in  prison  for  twelve  years  for  a  matter  of  sixteen 
shillings — what  is  it  they  call  it  ? — making  dice  of  his  bones  ? 
And  if  the  young  gentleman  fear  such  treatment  and  the  hoi'ri- 
ble  company  of  the  prisons,  I  marvel  not  that  he  should  prefer 
the  fresh  air  of  Bidford,  howsoever  dull  the  life  at  the  farm 
may  be." 

"  And  if  that  were  all,  why  should  he  fear  to  bring  the  letter 
to  your  father  ?"  the  other  said,  with  a  quick  glance  of  sus- 
picion :  she  did  not  like  the  way  in  which  Judith's  ready  brain 
could  furnish  forth  such  plausible  conjectures  and  excuses. 
"Answer  me  that,  Judith.  Is  your  father  one  likely  to  call 
aloud  and  have  the  man  taken,  if  that  be  all  that  is  against 
him  ?  Why  should  he  be  afraid  to  bring  the  letter  from  your 
father's  friend  ?  Nay,  why  should  lie  be  on  the  way  to  the 
house  with  it,  and  thereafter  stop  short  and  change  his  mind  ? 
There  is  many  a  mile  betwixt  London  and  Stratford  ;  'tis  a 
marvellous  thing  he  should  travel  all  that  way,  and  change 
his  mind  within  a  few  minutes  of  being  in  the  town.  I  love 
not  such  dark  ways,  Judith ;  no  good  thing  can  come  of  them, 
but  evil ;  and  it  were  ill  done  of  you — even  if  you  be  careless  of 
danger  to  yourself,  as  I  trow  you  mostly  are — I  say  it  is  ill 
done  of  you  to  risk  the  peace  of  your  family  by  holding  such 
dangerous  converse  with  a  stranger,  and  one  that  may  bi'ing 
harm  to  us  all." 

Judith  was  not  well  pleased ;  her  mouth  became  rather  proud. 
"Marry,  if  this  be  your  Christian  chax'ity,  I  would  not  give 

a  penny  ballad  for  it !"  said  she,  with  some  bitterness  of  tone. 

4* 


92  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

"I  had  thought  the  story  had  another  teaching — I  mean  the 
story  of  him  that  fell  among  thieves  and  was  beaten  and 
robbed  and  left  for  dead — and  that  we  were  to  give  a  helping 
hand  to  such,  like  the  Samaritan.  But  now  I  mind  me  'twas 
the  Priest  that  passed  by  on  the  other  side — yes,  the  Priest  and 
the  Levite — the  godly  ones  who  would  preserve  a  whole  skiii 
for  themselves,  and  let  the  other  die  of  his  wounds,  for  aught 
they  cared !  And  here  is  a  young  man  in  distress — alone  and 
fi'iendless — and  Avhen  he  would  have  a  few  words  of  cheerful- 
ness, or  a  message,  or  a  scrap  of  news  as  to  what  is  going  on 
in  the  world — no,  no,  say  the  Priest  and  the  Levite — go  not 
near  him — because  he  is  in  misfortune  he  is  dangerous — because 
he  is  alone  he  is  a  thief  and  a  murderer — perchance  a  pirate, 
like  Captain  Ward  and  Dansekar,  or  even  Catesby  himself 
come  alive  again.  I  say,  God  keep  us  all  from  such  Christian 
chai^ity !" 

' '  You  use  me  ill,  Judith,"  said  the  other,  and  then  was  silent. 

They  walked  on  through  the  meadows,  and  Judith  was 
watching  the  play  of  the  boys.  As  she  did  so,  a  leather  ball, 
struck  a  surprising  distance,  came  rolling  almost  to  her  feet, 
and  forthwith  one  of  the  lads  came  running  after  it.  She 
picked  it  up  and  threw  it  to  him — threw  it  awkwardly  and 
clumsily,  as  a  girl  throws,  but  nevertheless  she  saved  him  some 
distance  and  time,  and  she  was  rewarded  with  many  a  loud 
"Thank  you !  thank  you  !"  from  the  side  who  were  out.  But 
when  they  got  past  the  players  and  their  noise,  Prudence  could 
no  longer  keep  silent ;  she  had  a  forgiving  disposition,  and  no- 
thing distressed  her  so  much  as  being  on  unfriendly  terms  with 
Judith. 

"You  know  I  meant  not  that,  dear  Judith,"  said  she.  "I 
only  meant  to  shield  you  from  harm." 

As  for  Judith,  all  such  trivial  and  temporally  clouds  of  mis- 
understanding were  instantly  swallowed  up  in  the  warm  and 
radiant  sunniness  of  her  nature.      She  bi'oke  into  a  laugh. 

"And  so  you  shall,  dear  mouse,"  said  she,  gayly;  "you 
shall  shield  me  from  the  reproach  of  not  having  a  common  and 
ordinary  share  of  humanity ;  that  shall  you,  dear  Prue,  should 
the  unfortunate  young  gentleman  come  into  the  neighborhood 
again ;  for  you  will  read  to  me  the  message  that  he  sends  me, 
and  together  we  will  devise  somewhat  on  his  behalf.    No  ?    Are 


THROUGH  THE  MEADOWS.  93 

you  afraid  to  go  forth  and  meet  the  pirate  Dansekar  ?  Do  you 
expect  to  find  the  ghost  of  Gamaliel  Ratsey  walking  on  the 
Evesham  road  ?  Such  silly  fears,  dear  Prue,  do  not  become 
you:  you  are  no  longer  a  child." 

"You  are  laying  too  heavy  a  bui'den  on  me,  Judith,"  the  oth- 
er said,  rather  sadly.  ' '  I  know  not  what  to  do ;  and  you  say  I 
may  not  ask  counsel  of  any  one.  And  if  I  do  nothing,  I  am 
still  taking  a  part." 

"What  part,  then,  but  to  read  a  few  words  and  hold  your 
peace  ?"  said  her  companion,  lightly.  "  What  is  that  ?  But 
I  know  you  will  not  stay  there,  sweet  mouse.  No,  no ;  your 
heart  is  too  tender.  I  know  you  would  not  willingly  do  any 
one  an  injury,  or  harbor  suspicion  and  slander.  You  shall 
come  and  see  the  young  gentleman,  good  Prue,  as  I  say;  and 
then  you  will  repent  in  sackcloth  and  ashes  for  all  that  you 
have  urged  against  him.  And  perchance  it  may  be  in  New 
Place  that  you  shall  see  him — " 

"Ah,  Judith,  that  were  well!"  exclaimed  the  other,  with  a 
brighter  light  on  her  face. 

"  What  ?  Would  you  desire  to  see  him,  if  he  were  to  pay  us 
a  visit?"  Judith  said,  regarding  her  with  a  smile. 

"Surely,  surely,  after  what  you  have  told  me:  why  not, 
Judith  ?"  was  the  placid  answer. 

"There  would  be  nothing  ghostly  about  him  then  ?" 

"  There  would  be  no  secret,  Juditli,"said  Prudence,  gravely, 
"  that  you  have  to  keep  back  from  your  own  people." 

"Well,  well,  we  will  see  what  the  future  holds  for  us,"  said 
Judith,  in  the  same  careless  fashion.  "And  if  the  young 
gentleman  come  not  back  to  Stratford,  why,  then,  good  fortune 
attend  him,  wherever  he  may  be!  for  one  that  speaks  so  fair 
and  is  so  modest  sure  deserves  it.  And  if  he  come  not  back, 
tlien  shall  your  heart  be  all  the  lighter,  dear  Prue;  and  as  for 
mine,  mine  will  not  be  troubled— only,  that  I  wish  him  well, 
as  I  say,  and  would  fain  hear  of  his  better  estate.  So  all  is  so 
far  happily  settled,  sweet  mouse;  and  you  may  go  in  to  supper 
with  me  with  untroubled  eyes  and  a  free  conscience:  marry, 
there  is  need  for  that,  as  I  bethink  me ;  for  Master  Parson  comes 
this  evening,  and  you  know  you  must  have  a  pure  and  joyful 
heart  with  you,  good  Prudence,  when  you  enter  into  the  con- 
gregation of  the  saints." 


94  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE, 

"  Judith,  for  my  sake!" 

"Nay, I  meant  not  to  offend,  truly;  it  was  my  wicked,  idle 
tongue,  that  I  must  clap  a  bridle  on  now— for,  listen !— " 

They  were  come  to  New  Place.  There  was  singing  going 
forward  within ;  and  one  or  two  of  the  casements  were  open ; 
but  perhaps  it  was  the  glad  and  confident  nature  of  the  psalm 
that  led  to  the  words  being  so  clearly  heard  without: 

Tlie  man  is  blest  that  hath  not  bait 

To  wicked  rede  his  ear ; 
Nor  led  his  life  as  sinners  do, 

Nor  sat  in.  scorner's  chair.    ■ 
But  in  the  laiu  of  God  the  Lord 

Doth  set  his  u'hole  delight, 
And  in  that  law  doth  exercise 

Himself  both  day  and  night. 

He  shall  be  like  the  tree  that  groweth 

Fast  by  the  river^s  side  ; 
Which  bringeth  forth  most  pleasant  fruit 

In  her  due  time  and  tide; 
Whose  leaf  shall  never  fade  nor  fall. 

But  flourish  still  and  stand: 
Even  so  all  thiiigs  shall  prosper  well 

Tliat  this  man  takes  in  hand. 

And  so,  having  waited  until  the  singing  ceased,  they  entered 
into  the  house,  and  found  two  or  three  neighbors  assembled 
there,  and  Master  Walter  was  just  about  to  begin  his  discourse 
on  the  godly  life,  and  the  substantial  comfort  and  sweet  peace 
of  mind  pertaining  thereto. 

Some  few  days  after  this,  and  toward  the  hour  of  noon,  the 
mail-bearer  came  riding  post-haste  into  the  town ;  and  in  due 
course  the  contents  of  his  saddle-bags  Avere  distributed  among 
the  folk  entitled  to  them.  But  before  the  news-letters  had  been 
carefully  spelled  out  to  the  end,  a  strange  rumor  got  abroad. 
The  French  king  was  slain,  and  by  the  hand  of  an  assassin. 
Some,  as  the  tidings  passed  quickly  from  mouth  to  mouth,  said 
the  murderer  was  named  Eavelok,  others  Havelok;  but  as  to 
the  main  fact  of  tlie  fearful  crime  having  been  committed, 
there  was  no  manner  of  doubt.  Naturally  the  bruit  of  this  af- 
fair presently  reached  Julius  Shawe's  house ;  and  when  the  tim- 
id  Prudence  heard  of  it— and  when  she  thought  of  the  man 
who  had  been  in  hiding,  and  who  had  talked  with  Judith,  and 


A  PLAY-HOUSE.  95 

had  been  so  suddenly  and  secretly  summoned  away — her  face 
grew  even  paler  than  its  wont,  and  there  was  a  sickly  dread  at 
her  heart.  She  would  go  to  see  Judith  at  once ;  and  yet  slie 
scarcely  dared  to  breathe  even  to  herself  the  terrible  forebod- 
ings that  were  crowding  in  on  her  mind. 


CHAPTER  X. 

A    PLAY-HOUSE. 

But  Judith  laughed  aside  these  foolish  fears;  as  it  happen- 
ed, fur  more  important  matters  were  just  at  this  moment  oc- 
cupying her  mind. 

She  was  in  the  garden.  She  had  brought  out  some  after-din- 
ner fragments  for  the  Don ;  and  while  the  great  dun-colored 
beast  devoured  these,  she  had  turned  froni  him  to  regai'd  Mat- 
thew gardener;  and  there  was  a  sullen  resentment  on  her  face; 
for  it  seemed  to  her  imagination  that  he  kept  doggedly  and 
persistently  near  the  summer-house,  on  which  she  had  certain 
dark  designs.  However,  the  instant  she  caught  sight  of  Pru- 
dence, her  eye.3  brightened  up;  and,  indeed,  became  full  of  an 
eager  animation. 

"Hither,  hither,  good  Prue!"  she  exclaimed,  hurriedly. 
"  Quick !  quick !     I  have  news  for  you." 

"Yes,  indeed,  Judith,"  said  the  other;  and  at  the  same  mo- 
ment Judith  came  to  see  there  was  something  wrong — the  star- 
tled pale  face  and  frightened  eyes  had  a  story  to  tell. 

"Why,  what  is  to  do  ?"  said  she. 

' '  Know  you  not,  Judith  ?  Have  you  not  heard  ?  The  French 
king  is  slain — is  murdered  by  an  assassin  !" 

To  her  astonishment  the  news  seemed  to  produce  no  effect 
whatever. 

"Well,  I  am  sorry  for  the  poor  man,"  Juditli  said,  with  per- 
fect self-possession.  "They  that  climb  higli  must  sometimes 
have  a  sudden  fall.  But  why  should  tliat  alarm  you,  good 
Prue?  Or  have  you  other  news  that  comes  more  nearly 
home  V 

And  then,  when  Prudence  almost  breathlessly  revealed  the 


96  JUDITH   SHAKESPEARE. 

apprehensions  that  had  so  suddenly  filled  her  mind,  Judith 
would  not  even  stay  to  discuss  such  a  monstrous  possibility. 
She  laughed  it  aside  altogether.  That  the  courteous  young 
gentleman  who  had  come  with  a  letter  from  Ben  Jonson  should 
be  concerned  in  the  assassination  of  the  King  of  France  was 
entirely  absurd  and  out  of  the  question. 

"Nay,  nay,  good  Prue,"  said  she,  lightly,  "you  shall  make 
him  amends  for  these  unjust  suspicions;  that  you  shall,  dear 
mouse,  all  in  good  time.  But  listen  now :  I  have  weightier 
matters;  I  have  eggs  on  the  spit,  beshrew  me  else!  Can  you 
read  me  this  riddle,  sweet  Prue?  Know  you  by  these  tokens 
what  has  happened  ?  My  father  comes  in  to  dinner  to-day  in 
the  gayest  of  humors ;  there  is  no  absent  staring  at  the  window, 
and  forgetting  of  all  of  us;  it  is  all  merriment  this  time;  and 
he  must  needs  have  Bess  Hall  to  sit  beside  him  ;  and  he  would 
charge  her  with  being  a  witch ;  and  reproach  her  for  our  sim- 
ple meal,  when  that  she  might  have  given  us  a  banquet  like 
that  of  a  Loudon  Company,  with  French  dishes  and  silver 
flagons  of  Theologicum,  and  a  memorial  to  tell  each -of  us 
what  was  coming.  And  then  he  would  miscall  your  brother — 
which  you  know,  dear  Prudence,  he  never  would  do  were  he  in 
earnest — and  said  he  was  chamberlain  now,  and  was  conspiring 
to  be  made  alderman,  only  that  he  might  sell  building  materi- 
als to  the  Corporation  and  so  make  money  out  of  his  office. 
And  I  know  not  what  else  of  jests  and  laughing;  but  at  length 
he  sent  to  have  the  Evesham  roan  saddled;  and  he  said  that 
when  once  he  had  gone  along  to  the  sheep- wash  to  see  that  the 
hurdles  were  rightly  up  for  the  shearing,  he  would  give  all  the 
rest  of  the  day  to  idleness — to  idleness  wholly;  and  perchance 
he  might  ride  over  to  Broadway  to  see  the  shooting-match  go- 
ing forward  there.  Now,  you  wise  one,  can  you  guess  what 
has  happened  ?  Know  you  what  is  in  store  for  us  ?  Can  you 
read  me  the  riddle  ?" 

"I  see  no  riddle,  Judith,"  said  tbe  other,  with  puzzled  eyes. 
"  I  met  your  father  as  I  came  through  the  house ;  and  he  asked 
if  Julius  were  at  home:  doubtless  he  would  have  him  ride 
to  Broadway  with  him." 

"Dear  mouse,  is  that  your  skill  at  guessing?  But  listen 
now" — and  here  she  dropped  her  voice  as  she  regarded  good- 
man  Matthew,  thougli  that  personage  seemed  busily  enough  oc- 


A  PLAY-HOUSE.  97 

cupied  with  his  watering-can.  ' '  This  is  what  has  happened :  I 
know  the  signs  of  the  weather.  Be  sure  he  has  finished  the 
play — the  play  that  the  young  prince  Mamillius  was  in:  you 
remember,  good  Prue  ? — and  the  large  fair  copy  is  made  out 
and  locked  away  in  the  little  cupboard,  against  my  father's 
next  going  to  London ;  and  the  loose  sheets  are  thrown  into 
the  oak  chest,  along  with  the  others.  And  now,  good  Prue, 
sweet  Prue,  do  you  know  what  you  must  manage  ?  Indeed,  I 
dare  not  go  near  the  summer-house  while  that  ancient  wise- 
man  is  loitering  about;  and  you  must  coax  him,  Prue;  you 
must  get  him  away ;  sometimes  I  see  his  villain  eyes  watching 
me,  as  if  he  had  suspicion  in  liis  mind—" 

'"Tis  your  own  guilty  conscience,  Judith,"  said  Prudence, 
but  with  a  smile ;  for  she  had  herself  connived  at  this  oflFense 
ere  now. 

"By  fair  means  or  foul,  sweet  mouse,  you  must  get  him 
away  to  the  other  end  of  the  garden,"  said  she,  eagerly;  "for 
now  the  Don  has  nearly  finished  his  dinner,  and  goodman- 
wiseman-fool  will  wonder  if  we  stay  longer  here.  Nay,  I  have 
it,  sweet  Prue:  you  must  get  him  along  to  the  corner  where 
my  mother  grows  her  simples ;  and  you  must  keep  him  there 
for  a  space,  that  I  may  get  out  the  right  papers ;  and  this  is 
what  you  must  do:  you  will  ask  him  for  something  that 
sounds  like  Latin — no  matter  what  nonsense  it  may  be;  and  he 
will  answer  you  that  he  knows  it  right  well,  but  has  none  of  it 
at  the  present  time;  and  you  will  say  that  you  have  surely  seen 
it  among  my  mother's  simples,  and  thus  you  will  lead  liim 
away  to  find  it,  and  the  longer  j^ou  seek  the  better.  Do  you 
understand,  good  Prue  ?— and  quick  !  quick !" 

Prudence's  pale  face  flushed. 

"You  ask  too  much.  Judith.     I  can  not  deceive  the  poor 


man  so." 


"  Nay,  nay,  you  are  too  scrupulous,  dear  mouse.  A  trifle — a 
mere  trifle." 

And  then  Prudence  happened  to  look  up,  and  she  met  Ju- 
dith's eyes;  and  there  was  such  frank  self-confidence  and  au- 
dacity in  them,  and  also  such  a  singular  and  clear-shining 
beauty,  that  tlie  simple  Puritan  was  in  a  manner  bedazzled. 
She  said,  with  a  quiet  smile,  as  she  turned  away  her  head  again  : 

"Well,  I   marvel  not,  Judith,  that  you   can  bewitch   tlie 


98  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

young  men,  and  bewilder  theii'  understanding.  'Tis  easy  to 
see — if  they  have  eyes  and  regard  you,  they  are  lost ;  but  how 
you  have  your  own  way  with  all  of  us,  and  how  you  override 
our  judgment,  and  do  with  us  what  you  please,  that  passes  me. 
Even  Dr.  Hall :  for  whom  else  would  he  have  brought  from 
Coventry  the  green  silk  stockings  and  green  velvet  shoes  ? — you 
know  such  vanities  find  little  favor  in  his  own  home — " 

"  Quick,  quick,  sweetheart,  muzzle  me  that  gaping  ancient!" 
said  Judith,  interrupting  her.  "The  Don  has  finished;  and  I 
will  dart  into  the  summer-house  as  I  carry  back  the  dish.  De- 
tain him,  sweet  Prue ;  speak  a  word  or  two  of  Latin  to  him ;  he 
will  swear  he  understands  you  right  well,  though  you  yourself 
undei'stand  not  a  word  of  it — " 

"I  may  not  do  all  you  ask,  Judith,"  said  the  other,  after 
a  moment's  reflection  (and  still  with  an  uneasy  feeling  that  she 
was  yielding  to  the  wiles  of  a  temptress),  "but  I  will  ask  the 
goodman  to  show  me  your  mother's  simples,  and  how  they 
thrive." 

A  minute  or  two  thereafter  Judith  had  swiftly  stolen  into 
the  summer-house — which  was  spacious  and  substantial  of  its 
kind,  and  contained  a  small  black  cupboard  fixed  up  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  walls,  a  table  and  chair,  and  a  long  oak  chest  on 
the  floor.  It  was  this  last  that  held  the  treasure  she  was  in 
search  of ;  and  now,  the  lid  having  been  raised,  she  was  down 
on  one  knee,  carefully  selecting  from  a  mass  of  sti'ewn  papers 
(indeed,  there  were  a  riding- whip,  a  sword  and  sword-belt,  and 
several  other  articles  mixed  up  in  this  common  recei^tacle)  such 
sheets  as  were  without  a  minute  mark  which  she  had  invented 
for  her  own  private  purposes.  These  secured  and  hastily  hid- 
den in  her  sleeve,  she  closed  the  lid,  and  went  out  into  the 
open  again,  calling  upon  Prudence  to  come  to  her,  for  that  she 
was  going  into  the  house. 

They  did  not,  however,  remain  within-doors  at  New  Place, 
for  that  might  have  been  dangerous ;  they  knew  of  a  far  safer 
resort.  Just  behind  Julius  Shawe's  house,  and  between  that 
and  the  garden,  there  was  a  recess  formed  by  the  gable  of  a 
large  barn  not  quite  reaching  the  adjacent  wall.  It  was  a 
three -sided  retreat;  overlooked  by  no  window  whatsoever; 
there  was  a  frail  wooden  bench  on  tw^o  sides  of  it,  and  the  en- 
trance to  it  was  partly  blocked  up  by  an  empty  cask  that  had 


A  PLAY-HOUSE.  99 

been  put  there  to  be  out  of  the  way.  For  outlook  there  was 
nothing  but  a  glimpse  of  the  path  going  into  the  garden,  a  bit 
of  greensward,  and  two  apple-trees  between  them  and  the  sky. 
It  was  not  a  noble  theatre,  this  little  den  behind  the  barn ;  but 
it  had  produced  for  these  two  many  a  wonderful  pageant ;  for 
the  empty  barrel  and  the  bare  barn  wall  and  the  two  trees 
would  at  one  time  be  transformed  into  the  forest  of  Arden, 
and  Rosalind  would  be  walking  there  in  her  pretty  page  cos- 
tume, and  laughing  at  the  love-sick  Orlando;  and  again  they 
would  form  the  secret  haunts  of  Queen  Titania  and  her  court, 
with  the  jealous  Oberon  chiding  her  for  her  refusal ;  and  again 
they  would  become  the  hall  of  a  great  northern  castle,  with 
trumpets  and  cannon  sounding  without  as  the  King  drank  to 
Hamlet.  Indeed,  the  elder  of  these  two  young  women  had  an 
extraordinarily  vivid  imagination ;  she  saw  the  things  and  peo- 
ple as  if  they  were  actually  there  before  her ;  she  realized  their 
existence  so  intensely  that  even  Prudence  was  brought  to  sym- 
pathize with  them,  and  to  follow  their  actions  now  with  hot 
indignation,  and  now  with  triumphant  delight  over  good  foi*- 
tune  come  at  last.  There  was  no  stage-carpenter  there  to  dis- 
tract them  with  his  dismal  expedients;  no  actor  to  thrust  his 
physical  peculiarities  between  them  and  the  ])oet's  ethereal  vi- 
sions ;  the  dream-world  was  before  them,  clear  and  filled  with 
light ;  and  Prudence's  voice  was  gentle  and  of  a  musical  kind. 
Nay,  sometimes  Judith  would  leap  to  her  feet.  "You  shall 
not!— you  shall  not!"  she  would  exclaim,  as  if  addressing  some 
strange  visitant  that  was  showing  the  villainy  of  his  mind ;  and 
tears  came  quickly  to  her  eyes  if  there  was  a  tale  of  pity ;  and 
the  joy  and  laughter  over  lovei's  reconciled  brouglit  warm 
color  to  her  face.  They  forgot  that  these  walls  that  inclosed 
them  were  of  gray  mud;  they  forgot  that  the  prevailing  odor 
in  the  air  was  that  of  the  malt  in  the  barn;  for  now  they 
were  regarding  Romeo  in  the  moonlight,  with  the  dusk  of  the 
garden  around,  and  Juliet  uttering  her  secrets  to  the  honeyed 
night;  and  again  they  were  listening  to  the  awful  voices  of 
the  witches  on  the  heath,  and  guessing  at  the  sombre  thoughts 
passing  through  the  mind  of  Macbeth ;  and  then  again  they  were 
crying  bitterly  when  they  saw  before  them  an  old  man,  gray- 
haired,  discrowned,  and  witless,  that  looked  from  one  to  the 
other  of  those  standing  by,  and  would  ask  who  the  sweet  lady 


100  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

was  that  sought  with  tears  for  his  benediction.     They  could 
hear  the  frail  and  shaken  voice : 

"  Methinks  I  should  know  you,  and  know  this  man; 

Yet  J  am  doubtful :  for  I  am  mahihf  ignorant 

What  place  this  is :   and  all  the  skill  I  have 
Remembers  not  these  garments  ;  nor  I  know  not 

Wliere  I  did  lodge  last  night.     Do  not  laugh  at  me; 
For,  as  1  am  a  man,  I  think  this  lady 

To  be  my  child  Cordelia.'''' 

And  now,  as  they  had  retired  into  this  sheltered  nook,  and 
Prudence  was  carefully  placing  in  order  the  scattered  sheets 
that  had  been  given  her,  Judith  was  looking  on  with  some 
compunction. 

"  Indeed  I  grieve  to  give  yon  so  much  trouble,  sweetheart," 
said  she.  ' '  I  would  I  could  get  at  the  copy  that  my  father  has 
locked  away — " 

"Judith !"  her  friend  said,  reproachfully.  "You  would  not 
take  that?  Why,  your  father  will  scarce  show  it  even  to  Julius, 
and  sure  I  am  that  none  in  the  house  would  put  a  hand  upon 
it-" 

"If  it  were  a  book  of  psalms  and  paraphrases,  they  might 
be  of  another  mind,"  Judith  said;  but  Prudence  would  not 
hear. 

"  Nay,"  said  she,  as  she  continued  to  search  for  the  connect- 
ing pages.  "  I  have  heard  your  father  say  to  Julius  that  there 
is  but  little  difference ;  and  that  'tis  only  when  he  has  leisure 
here  in  Stratford  that  he  makes  this  copy  writ  out  fair  and 
large;  in  London  he  takes  no  such  i)aius.  Truly  I  would  not 
that  either  Julius  or  any  of  his  acquaintance  knew  of  ray  fin- 
gering in  such  a  matter:  what  would  they  say,  Judith  ?  And 
sometimes,  indeed,  my  mind  is  ill  at  ease  with  regard  to  it— that 
I  should  be  reading  to  you  things  that  so  many  godly  people 
denounce  as  wicked  and  dangerous — " 

' '  You  are  too  full  of  fears,  good  mouse,"  said  Judith,  coolly, 
"and  too  apt  to  take  the  good  people  at  their  word.  Nay,  I 
have  heard ;  they  will  make  you  out  everything  to  be  wicked 
and  sinful  that  is  not  to  their  own  minds ;  and  they  are  zealous 
among  the  saints  ;  but  I  have  heard,  I  have  heard." 

"What,  then  ?"  said  the  other,  with  some  faint  color  in  her 
face. 


A  PLAY-HOUSE.  101 

"No  matter,"  said  Judith,  carelessly.  "  Well,  I  have  heard 
that  when  they  make  a  jom-ney  to  Loudon  they  are  as  fond  of 
claret  wine  and  oysters  as  any ;  but  no  matter :  in  truth  the 
winds  carry  many  a  thing  not  woi'th  the  listening  to.  But  as 
regards  this  special  wickedness,  sweet  mouse,  indeed  you  are 
innocent  of  it ;  'tis  all  laid  to  my  charge ;  I  am  the  sinner  and 
temptress ;  be  sure  you  shall  not  suflFer  one  jot  through  my  in- 
iquity. And  now  have  you  got  them  all  together  ?  Are  you 
ready  to  begin  ?"' 

"  But  you  must  tell  me  where  the  story  ceased,  dear  Judith, 
when  last  we  had  it ;  for  indeed  you  have  a  marvellous  mem- 
ory, even  to  the  word  and  the  letter.  The  poor  babe  that  was 
abandoned  on  the  sea-shore  had  just  been  found  by  the  old 
shepherd— went  it  not  so  ?— and  he  was  wondering  at  the  rich 
bearing-cloth  it  was  wrapped  in.  Why,  here  is  the  name — 
Perdita,"  she  continued,  as  she  rapidly  scanned  one  or  two  of 
the  papers— "who  is  now  grown  up,  it  appears,  and  in  much 
grace;  and  this  is  a  kind  of  introduction,  I  take  it,  to  tell  you 
all  that  has  happened  since  your  father  last  went  to  London — 
I  mean  since  the  stoiy  was  broken  off.  And  Florizel — I  remem- 
ber not  the  name— but  here  he  is  so  named  as  the  son  of  the 
King  of  Bohemia — " 

A  quick  laugh  of  intelligence  rose  to  Judith's  eyes ;  she  had 
an  alert  brain. 

"Prince  Florizel?"  she  exclaimed.  "And  Princess  Per- 
dita! That  were  a  fair  match,  in  good  sooth,  and  a  way  to 
heal  old  differences.  But  to  the  beginning,  sweetheart,  I  be- 
seech you ;  let  us  hear  how  the  story  is  to  be ;  and  pray  Heaven 
he  gives  me  back  my  little  Mamillius,  that  was  so  petted  and 
teased  by  the  coui't  ladies." 

However,  as  speedily  appeared,  she  had  anticipated  too  easy 
a  continuation  and  conclusion.  The  young  Prince  Florizel 
proved  to  be  enamored,  not  of  one  of  his  own  station,  but  of  a 
simple  shepherdess;  and  although  she  instantly  guessed  that 
this  shepherdess  might  turn  out  to  be  the  forsaken  Perdita,  tlie 
conver-sation  between  King  Polixenes  and  the  good  Camillo 
still  left  her  in  doubt.  As  for  the  next  scene — the  encounter 
between  Autolycus  and  the  country  clown — Judith  wholly  and 
somewhat  sulkily  disapproved  of  that.  She  laughed,  it  is  true; 
but  it  was  sorely  against  her  will.     For  she  suspected  that 


102  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

goodman  Matthew's  influence  was  too  apparent  here ;  and  that, 
were  he  ever  to  hear  of  the  story,  he  would  m  his  vanity  claim 
this  part  as  his  own ;  moreover,  there  was  a  kind  of  familiar- 
ity and  eveiy-day  feeling  in  the  atmosjihere — why,  she  herself 
had  been  rapidly  questioned  by  her  father  about  the  necessary 
purchases  for  a  sheep-shearing  feast,  and  Susan,  laughing,  had 
struck  in  with  the  information  as  to  the  saffron  for  coloring 
the  warden-pies.  But  when  the  sweet-voiced  Prudence  came 
to  the  scene  between  Prince  Florizel  and  the  pretty  shephei'dess, 
then  Judith  was  right  well  content. 

"Oh,  do  you  see,  now,  how  her  gentle  bii*th  shines  through 
her  lowly  condition !"  she  said,  quickly.  "And  when  the  old 
shepherd  finds  that  he  has  been  ordering  a  king's  daughter  to 
be  the  mistress  of  the  feast — ay,  and  soundly  rating  her,  too,  for 
her  bashful  ways — what  a  fright  will  seize  the  good  old  man ! 
And  what  says  she  in  answer?  —  again,  good  Prue  —  let  me 
hear  it  again — marry,  now,  I'll  be  sworn  she  had  just  such  an- 
other voice  as  yours !" 

"To  the  King  Polixenes,"  Prudence  continued,  regarding 
the  manuscript,  "who  is  in  disguise,  you  know,  Judith,  she 
says: 

'  Welcome^  sir  ! 
It  is  my  father\s  will  I  should  take  on  me 
T}ie  hostess-ship  o'  the  day : — yoiCre  welcome,  sir.^ 

And  then  to  both  the  gentlemen : 

'  Give  me  those  flowers  there,  Dorcas. — Reverend  sirs, 
For  you  there^s  rosemary  ajid  rue ;  these  keep 
Seaning  and  savor  all  the  winter  long  : 
Grace  and  remembrance  he  to  you  both, 
And  welcome  to  our  shearing  P  " 

"Ah,  there,  now,  will  they  not  be  won  by  her  gentleness  ?" 
she  cried,  eagerly.  "Will  they  not  suspect  and  discover  the 
truth  ?  It  were  a  new  thing  for  a  i^rince  to  wed  a  shepherdess, 
but  this  is  no  shepherdess,  as  an  owl  might  see !  What  say 
they  then,  Prue  ?     Have  they  no  suspicion  ?" 

So  Prudence  continued  her  patient  reading— in  the  intense 
silence  that  was  broken  only  by  the  twittering  of  the  birds  in 
the  orchard,  or  the  crowing  of  a  cock  in  some  neighboring 
yard ;  and  Judith  listened  keenly,  drinking  in  every  varying 
phrase.     But  when  Florizel  had  addressed  his  speech  to  the 


A  PLAY-HOUSE.  103 

pretty  hostess  of  the  day,  Judith  could  no  longer  forbear:  she 
clapped  her  hands  in  delight. 

' '  There,  now,  that  is  a  true  lover ;  that  is  spoken  like  a  true 
lover,"  she  ci-ied,  with  her  face  radiant  and  proud.  "Again, 
good  Prue — let  us  hear  what  he  says — ay,  and  before  them  all, 
too,  I  warrant  me  he  is  not  ashamed  of  her." 

So  Prudence  had  to  read  once  more  Florizel's  praise  of  his 

gentle  mistress: 

"  '  \V7iat  you  do 
Still  betters  what  is  done.      ]Vhe7i  you  speak,  sweet, 
Td  have  you  do  it  ever:  when  you  sing, 
I'd  have  you  buy  and  sell  so;  so  give  alms; 
Pray  so  ;  and,  for  the  ordering  your  affairs, 
To  sing  them  too.     WJicn  you  do  dance,  I  wish  you 
A  wave  o'  the  sea,  that  you  might  ever  do 
Nothing  but  that ;  move  still,  still  so,  and  oicn 
No  other  function.     Each  your  doing, 
So  singidar  in  each  particular. 
Crowns  what  you  are  doing  in  the  present  deeds. 
That  all  your  acts  are  queens  P" 

"In  good  sooth,  it  is  spoken  like  a  true  lover,"  Judith  said, 
with  a  light  on  her  face  as  if  the  speech  had  been  addressed 
to  herself.  "Like  one  that  is  well  content  with  his  sweet- 
heart, and  is  proud  of  her,  and  approves !  Marry,  there  be  few 
of  such  in  these  days;  for  this  one  is  jealous  and  unreason- 
able, and  would  have  the  mastery  too  soon ;  and  that  one  would 
frighten  you  to  his  will  by  declaring  you  are  on  the  highway 
to  pei'dition ;  and  another  would  have  you  more  civil  to  his 
tribe  of  kinsfolk.  But  there  is  a  true  lover,  now;  there  is  one 
that  is  courteous  and  gentle;  one  that  is  not  afraid  to  approve: 
there  may  be  such  in  Stratford,  but,  God  wot,  they  would  seem 
to  be  a  scarce  commodity!  Nay,  I  pray  your  pardon,  good 
Prue :  to  the  story,  if  it  please  you — and  is  there  aught  of  the 
little  Mamillius  forth-coming  ?" 

And  so  tlie  reading  proceeded;  and  Judith  was  in  much  de- 
light that  the  old  King  seemed  to  perceive  something  unusual 
in  the  grace  and  carriage  of  the  pretty  Perdita. 

"What  is't  he  says  ?     What  are  the  very  words  ?" 

" '  T7iis  is  the  prettie,it  low-born  lass  that  ever 

Ran  on  the  greensward :  nothing  she  does  or  seemx 
But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  herself; 
Too  noble  for  this  placc.^  " 


104  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

' '  Yes !  yes !  yes !"  she  exclaimed,  quickly.  ' '  And  sees  he  not 
some  likeness  to  the  Queen  Herraione?  Surely  he  must  re- 
member the  poor  injured  Queen,  and  see  that  this  is  her  daugh- 
ter ?  Happy  daughter,  that  has  a  lover  that  thinks  so  well  of 
her!     And  now,  Prue?" 

But  when  in  the  course  of  the  hushed  reading  all  these  fair 
hopes  came  to  he  cruelly  shattered;  when  the  pastoral  romance 
was  brought  to  a  sudden  end ;  when  the  King,  disclosing  him- 
self, declared  a  divorce  between  the  unha^jpy  lovers,  and  was 
for  hanging  the  ancient  shepherd,  and  would  have  Perdita's 
beauty  scratched  with  briers;  and  when  Prudence  had  to  re- 
peat the  farewell  words  addressed  to  the  prince  by  his  hapless 
sweetheart — 

" '  WilPt  please  you,  sir,  be  gone  ? 
I  told  you  what  tvould  come  of  this.     Beseech  you, 
Of  your  own  state  take  care:  this  dream  of  mine — 
Being  noio  awake,  I  HI  queeii  it  no  inch  further. 
But  milk  my  eives,  and  weep — ' " 

— there  was  something  very  like  tears  in  the  gentle  reader's 
eyes ;  but  that  was  not  Judith's  mood ;  she  was  in  a  tempest 
of  indignation. 

"God's  my  life!"  she  cried,  "was  there  ever  such  a  fool  as 
this  old  King  ?  He  a  king !  He  to  sit  on  a  throne !  Better' 
if  he  sate  in  a  barn  and  helped  madge-howlet  to  catch  mice ! 
And  what  says  the  prince  ?  Nay,  I'll  be  sworn  he  proves  him- 
self a  true  man,  and  no  summer  playfellow;  he  will  stand  by 
her;  he  will  hold  to  her,  let  the  ancient  dotard  wag  his  beard 
as  he  please!" 

And  so,  in  the  end,  the  story  was  told,  and  all  happily  set- 
tled ;  and  Prudence  rose  from  the  rude  wooden  bench  with  a 
kind  of  wistful  look  on  her  face,  as  if  she  had  been  far  away, 
and  seen  strange  things.  Then  Judith— pausing  for  a  minute 
or  so  as  if  she  would  fix  the  whole  thing  in  her  memory,  to  be 
thought  over  afterward— proceeded  to  tie  the  pages  together  for 
the  better  concealment  of  them  on  her  way  home. 

"And  the  wickedness  of  it  ?"  said  she,  lightly.  "Wherein 
lies  the  wickedness  of  such  a  reading,  sweet  mouse  ?" 

Prudence  was  somewhat  shamefaced  on  such  occasions ;  she 
could  not  honestly  say  that  she  regretted  as  she  ought  to  have 
done  giving  way  to  Judith's  importunities. 


A  PLAY-HOUSE.  105 

"Some  would  answer  you,  Judith," she  said,  "that  we  had 
but  ill  used  time  that  was  given  us  for  more  serious  purposes." 

"And  for  what  more  serious  purposes,  good  gossip?  For 
the  repeating  of  idle  tales  about  our  neighbors  ?  Or  the  spend- 
ing of  the  afternoon  in  sleep,  as  is  the  custom  with  many  ? 
Are  we  all  so  busy,  then,  that  we  may  not  pass  a  few  minutes 
in  amusement  ?  But,  indeed,  sweet  Prue,"  said  she,  as  she  gave 
a  little  touch  to  her  pretty  cap  and  snow-white  ruflP,  to  put  them 
right  before  she  went  out  into  the  street,  ' '  I  mean  to  make 
amends  this  afternoon.  I  shall  be  busy  enough  to  make  up  for 
whatever  loss  of  time  there  has  been  over  this  dangerous  and 
godless  idleness.  For,  do  you  know,  I  have  everything  ready 
now  for  the  new  Portugal  receipts  that  you  read  to  me ;  and 
two  of  them  I  am  to  try  as  soon  as  I  get  home ;  and  my  father 
is  to  know  nothing  of  the  matter — till  the  dishes  be  on  the  ta- 
ble. So  fare  you  well,  sweet  mouse ;  and  give  ye  good  thanks, 
too:  this  has  been  but  an  evil  preparation  for  the  church-going 
of  the  morrow,  but  remember,  the  sin  was  mine — you  are  quit 
of  that." 

And  then  her  glance  fell  on  the  roll  of  paj^ers  that  she  held 
in  her  hand. 

"The  pretty  Perdita!"  said  she.  "Her  beauty  was  not 
scratched  with  briei-s,  after  all.  And  I  doubt  not  she  was  in 
brave  attire  at  the  court;  though  methinks  I  better  like  to  re- 
member her  as  the  mistress  of  the  feast,  giving  the  flowers  to 
this  one  and  that.  And  happy  Perdita,  also,  to  have  the  young 
prince  come  to  the  sheep-shearing,  and  say  so  many  sweet 
things  to  her!  Is't  possible,  think  you,  Prue,  there  might 
come  such  another  handsome  stranger  to  our  sheep-shearing 
that  is  now  at  hand  ?" 

"  I  know  not  what  you  mean,  Judith." 

"Why,  now,  should  such  things  happen  only  in  Bohemia?" 
she  said,  gayly,  to  the  gentle  and  jjuzzled  Prudence.  "Soon 
our  shearing  will  begin,  for  the  weather  has  been  warm,  and 
I  hear  the  hurdles  are  already  fixed.  And  there  will  be  some- 
what of  a  merry-making,  no  doubt;  and — and  the  road  from 
Evesham  hither  is  a  fair  and  goodly  road,  that  a  handsome 
young  stranger  might  well  come  riding  along.  What  then, 
good  mouse  ?  If  one  wore  to  meet  him  in  the  lane  that  cross- 
es to  Shottery — and  to  bid  him  to  the  feast— what  then  ?" 


106  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

"  Oh,  Judith,  surely  you  are  not  still  thinking  of  that  dan' 
gerous  man !"  the  other  exclaimed. 

But  Judith  merely  regarded  her  for  a  second,  with  the  clear 
shining  eyes  now  become  quite  demure  and  inscrutable. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A    REMONSTRANCE. 


Next  morning  was  Sunday ;  and  Judith,  having  got  through 
her  few  domestic  duties  at  an  early  hour,  and  being  dressed  in 
an  especially  pretty  costume  in  honor  of  the  holy  day,  thought 
she  need  no  longer  remain  within-doors,  but  Avould  walk  along 
to  the  church-yard,  where  she  expected  to  flud  Prudence.  The 
latter  very  often  went  thither  on  a  Sunday  morning,  partly  for 
quiet  reverie  and  recalling  of  this  one  and  the  other  of  her 
departed  but  not  forgotten  friends  whose  names  were  carven 
on  the  tombstones,  and  jiartly — if  this  may  be  forgiven  her — 
to  see  how  the  generous  mother  earth  had  responded  to  her 
week-day  labors  in  the  planting  and  tending  of  the  graves. 
But  when  Judith,  idly  and  carelessly  as  was  her  wont,  reached 
the  church-yard,  she  found  the  wide,  silent  space  quite  empty; 
so  she  concluded  that  Prudence  had  probably  been  detained  by 
a  visit  to  some  one  fallen  sick ;  and  she  thought  she  might  as 
well  wait  for  her ;  and  with  that  view — or  perhaps  out  of  mere 
thoughtlessness — she  went  along  to  the  river-side,  and  sat  down 
on  the  low  wall  there,  having  before  her  the  slowly  moving 
yellow  stream  and  the  fair,  far- stretching  landscape  beyond. 

There  had  been  some  rain  during  the  night;  the  roads  she 
had  come  along  were  miry;  and  here  the  grass  in  the  church- 
yard was  dripping  with  the  wet;  but  there  was  a  kind  of  suf- 
fused rich  light  abroad  that  bespoke  the  gi-adual  breaking 
through  of  the  sun ;  and  there  was  a  warmth  in  the  moist  at- 
mosphere that  seemed  to  call  forth  all  kinds  of  sweet  odors 
from  the  surrounding  plants  and  flowers.  Not  that  she  need- 
ed these,  for  she  had  fixed  in  her  bosom  a  little  nosegay  of  yel- 
low-leaved mint,  that  was  quite  sufficient  to  sweeten  the  scarce- 
ly moving  air.  And  as  she  sat  there  in  the  silence  it  seemed  to 
her  as  if  all  the  world  were  awake — aud  had  be(;n  awake  for 


A  REMONSTRANCE.  107 

hours — but  that  all  the  human  beings  were  gone  out  of  it.  The 
rooks  Avere  cawing  in  the  elms  above  her;  the  bees  hummed 
as  they  flew  by  into  the  open  hght  over  the  stream ;  and  far 
away  she  could  hear  the  lowing  of  the  cattle  on  the  farms ;  but 
there  was  no  sound  of  any  human  voice,  nor  any  glimpse  of  any 
human  creature  in  the  wide  landscape.  And  she  grew  to  won- 
der what  it  would  be  like  if  she  were  left  alone  in  the  world, 
all  the  people  gone  from  it,  her  own  relatives  and  friends  no 
longer  here  and  around  her,  but  away  in  the  strange  region 
where  Hamnet  was,  and  perhaps,  on  such  a  morning  as  this, 
regarding  her  not  without  pity,  and  even,  it  might  be,  with 
some  touch  of  half-recalled  affection.  Which  of  them  all 
should  she  regret  the  most  ?  Which  of  them  all  would  this 
solitary  creature — left  alone  in  Stratford,  in  an  empty  town — 
most  crave  for,  and  feel  the  want  of  ?  Well,  she  went  over 
these  friends  and  neighbors  and  companions  and  would-be  lov- 
ers; and  she  tried  to  imagine  what,  in  such  circumstances,  she 
might  think  of  this  one  and  that;  and  which  of  them  she 
would  most  desire  to  have  back  on  the  earth  and  living  with 
her.  But  right  well  she  knew  in  her  heart  that  all  this  bal- 
ancing and  choosing  was  but  a  ju'etense.  There  was  but  the 
one ;  the  one  whose  briefest  approval  was  a  kind  of  heaven  to 
her,  and  the  object  of  her  secret  and  constant  desire ;  the  one 
who  tui'ned  aside  her  affection  with  a  jest ;  who  brought  her 
silks  and  scents  from  London  as  if  her  mind  were  set  on  no 
other  things  than  these.  And  she  was  beginning  to  wonder 
whether,  in  those  imagined  circumstances,  he  might  come  to 
think  differently  of  her  and  to  understand  her  somewhat; 
and  indeed  she  was  already  jjicturing  to  herself  the  life  they 
might  lead — these  two,  father  and  daughter,  together  in  the 
empty  and  silent  but  sun-lit  and  sufficiently  cheerful  town — 
when  her  idle  reverie  was  interrupted.  There  was  a  sound  of 
talking  behind  her;  doubtless  the  first  of  the  people  were  now 
coming  to  church ;  for  the  doors  were  already  open. 

She  looked  round,  and  saw  that  this  was  Master  Walter 
Blaise  who  had  just  come  through  the  little  swinging  gate,  and 
that  he  was  accompanied  by  two  little  girls,  one  at  each  side 
of  him,  and  holding  his  liand.  Instantly  slu>  turned  her  head 
away,  pretending  not  to  have  seen  him. 

"Bless  the  man  !"  she  said  to  herself,  "  what  does  he  here  of 

5 


108  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

a  Sunday  morning  ?    Why  is  so  diligent  a  pastor  not  in  charge 
of  his  own  flock  ?" 

But  slie  felt  secure  enougli.  Not  only  was  he  accompanied 
by  the  two  childi^en,  bat  there  was  this  other  safeguard  that  he 
would  not  dare  to  profane  the  holy  day  by  attempting  any- 
thing in  the  way  of  wooing.  And  it  must  be  said  that  the 
young  parson  had  had  but  few  opportunities  for  that,  the  other 
members  of  the  household  eagerly  seeking  his  society  when  he 
came  to  New  Place,  and  Judith  sharp  to  watch  her  chances  of 
escape. 

The  next  moment  she  was  startled  by  hearing  a  quick  foot- 
step behind  her.    She  did  not  move. 

"Give  you  good-morrow,  Judith,"  said  he,  presenting  him- 
self, and  regarding  her  with  his  keen  and  confident  gray  eyes. 
"I  would  crave  a  word  with  you;  and  I  trust  it  may  be  a 
word  in  season,  and  acceptable  to  you." 

He  spoke  with  an  air  of  cool  authority,  which  she  resented. 
There  was  nothing  of  the  clownish  bashfulness  of  young  Jel- 
leyman  about  him ;  nor  yet  of  the  half  timid,  half  sulky  jea- 
lousy of  Tom  Quiney ;  but  a  kind  of  mastery,  as  if  his  office 
gave  him  the  right  to  speak,  and  commanded  that  she  should 
hear.  And  she  did  not  think  this  fair,  and  she  distinctly  wish- 
ed to  be  alone ;  so  that  her  face  had  but  little  welcome  in  it,  and 
none  of  the  shining  radiance  of  kindness  that  Willy  Hart  so 
worshipped. 

"I  know  you  like  not  hearing  of  serious  things,  Judith," 
said  he  (while  she  wondered  whither  he  had  sent  the  two  little 
girls:  perhaps  into  the  chiu-ch  ?),  "but  I  were  no  true  friend 
to  you,  as  I  desire  to  be,  if  I  feared  to  displease  you  when 
there  is  need." 

' '  What  have  I  done,  then  ?  In  what  have  I  offended  ?  I 
know  we  are  all  miserable  sinners,  if  that  be  what  you  mean," 
said  she,  coldly. 

"  I  w^ould  not  have  you  take  it  that  way,  Judith,"  said  he; 
and  there  really  was  much  friendliness  in  his  voice.  "I 
meant  to  speak  kindly  to  you.  Nay,  I  have  tried  to  under- 
stand you ;  and  perchance  I  do  in  a  measure.  You  are  in  the 
enjoyment  of  such  health  and  spirits  as  fall  to  the  lot  of  few; 
you  are  well  coutent  with  your  life  and  the  passing  moment; 
you  do  not  like  to  be  disturbed,  or  to  think  of  the  future.     But 


->«>-' 


EA-^lbey. 


'  D*E   :88i 


IIK    SPOKK     Uini     AN    All;    OK    Cool,    ACIllOKirV,    WHICH    HIIK     KKSKNTKn." 


A  REMONSTRANCE.  Ill 

the  future  will  come,  nevertheless,  and  it  may  be  with  altered 
circumstances ;  your  light-heartedness  may  cease,  sorrow  and 
sickness  may  fall  upon  you,  and  then  you  may  wish  you  had 
learned  earlier  to  seek  for  help  and  consolation  where  these 
alone  are  to  be  found.  It  were  well  that  you  should  think 
of  such  things  now,  surely ;  you  can  not  live  always  as  you 
live  now — I  had  almost  said  a  godless  life,  but  I  do  not  wish 
to  offend;  in  truth,  I  would  rather  lead  you  in  all  kindliness 
to  what  I  know  is  the  true  pathway  to  the  happiness  and  peace 
of  the  soul.  I  would  speak  to  you,  Judith,  if  in  no  other  way, 
as  a  brother  in  Christ ;  I  were  no  true  friend  to  you  else ;  nay, 
I  have  the  command  of  the  Master  whom  I  serve  to  speak  and 
fear  not." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  she  was  better  content  now.  So 
long  as  he  only  preached  at  her,  he  was  within  his  province, 
and  within  his  right. 

"And  bethink  you,  Judith,"  said  he,  with  a  touch  of  re- 
proach in  his  voice,  "how  and  why  it  is  you  enjoy  such  health 
and  cheerfulness  of  spirits:  surely  through  the  Lord  in  His 
loving-kindness  answering  the  prayers  of  your  pious  mother. 
Your  life,  one  might  say,  was  vouchsafed  in  answer  to  her  sup- 
plications; and  do  you  owe  nothing  of  duty  and  gratitude  to 
God,  and  to  God's  Church,  and  to  God's  people  ?  Why  should 
you  hold  aloof  from  them  ?  Why  sliould  you  favor  worldly 
things,  and  walk  apart  from  the  congregation,  and  live  as  if  to- 
morrow were  always  to  be  as  to-day,  and  as  if  there  were  to  be 
no  end  to  life,  no  calling  to  account  as  to  how  we  have  spent 
our  time  here  upon  earth?  Dear  Judith,  I  speak  not  unkindly; 
I  wish  not  to  offend;  but  often  my  heart  is  grieved  for  you; 
and  I  would  have  you  think  how  trifling  our  present  life  is  in 
view  of  the  great  eternity  whither  we  are  all  journeying;  and 
I  would  ask  you,  for  your  soul's  sake,  and  for  your  peace  of 
mind  here  and  hereafter,  to  join  with  us,  and  come  closer  witli 
us,  and  partake  of  our  exercises.  Indeed  you  will  find  a  truer 
happiness.  Do  you  not  owe  it  to  us  ?  Have  you  no  gratitude 
for  the  answering  of  your  mother's  prayei-s  ?" 

"Doubtless,  doubtless, "said  she  (though  she  would  rather 
have  been  listening  in  silence  to  the  singing  of  the  birds,  that 
were  all  rcjoiciiig  now,  for  the  sun  had  at  length  clciirod  away 
the  morning  vapors,  and  the  woods  and  the  meadows  and  tiie 


112  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

far  uplands  were  all  shining  in  the  brilliant  new  light).  "  I  go 
to  church  as  the  others  do,  and  there  we  give  thanks  for  all 
the  mercies  that  have  been  granted." 

"And  is  it  enough,  think  you?"  said  he — and  as  he  stood, 
while  she  sat,  she  did  not  care  to  meet  those  clear,  keen,  au- 
thoritative eyes  that  were  bent  on  her.  ' '  Does  your  conscience 
tell  you  that  you  give  sufficient  thanks  for  what  God  in  His 
great  mercy  has  vouchsafed  to  you  ?  Lip-service  every  seventh 
day ! — a  form  of  words  gone  through  before  you  take  your  after- 
noon walk !  Why,  if  a  neighbor  were  kind  to  you,  you  would 
show  him  as  much  gratitude  as  that;  and  this  is  all  you  offer 
to  the  Lord  of  heaven  and  earth  for  having  in  His  compas- 
sion listened  to  your  mother's  prayers,  and  bestowed  on  you 
l^fe  and  health  and  a  cheerful  mind  ?" 

' '  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  I  can  not  i)rof ess  to  be  a 
saint  while  at  heart  I  am  none,"  said  she,  somewhat  sullenly. 

It  was  an  unlucky  question.  Moreover,  at  this  moment  the 
bells  in  the  tower  sent  forth  their  first  throbbing  peals  into  the 
startled  air;  and  these  doubtless  recalled  him  to  the  i^assiug 
of  time,  and  the  fact  that  presently  the  people  would  be  coming 
into  the  church-yard. 

"I  will  speak  plainly  to  you,  Judith;  I  take  no  shame  to 
mention  such  a  matter  on  the  Lord's  day;  perchance  the  very 
holiness  of  the  hour  and  of  the  spot  whei'e  I  have  chanced  to 
meet  you  will  the  better  incline  your  heart.  You  know  what 
I  have  wished ;  what  your  family  wish ;  and  indeed  you  can 
not  be  so  blind  as  not  to  have  seen.  It  is  true,  I  am  but  a 
humble  laborer  in  the  Lord's  vineyard ;  but  I  magnify  my  of- 
fice ;  it  is  an  honorable  woi'k ;  the  saving  of  souls,  the  calling 
to  repentance,  the  carrying  of  the  Gospel  to  the  poor  and  strick- 
en ones  of  the  earth — I  say  that  is  an  honorable  calling,  and  one 
that  blesses  them  that  partake  in  it,  and  gives  a  peace  of  mind 
far  beyond  what  the  worldlings  dream  of.  And  if  I  have  wish- 
ed that  you  might  be  able  and  willing — through  God's  merci- 
ful inclining  of  your  heart — to  aid  me  in  this  work,  to  become 
my  helpmeet,  was  it  only  of  my  own  domestic  state  I  was 
thinking  ?  Surely  not.  I  have  seen  you  from  day  to  day — 
careless  and  content  with  the  trifles  and  idle  things  of  this  vain 
and  profitless  world ;  but  I  have  looked  forward  to  what  might 
befall  in  the  future,  and  I  have  desired  with  all  my  heart — yea, 


I 


A  REMONSTRANCE.  113 

and  with  prayers  to  God  for  the  same — that  you  should  be 
taught  to  seek  the  true  haven  in  time  of  need.  Do  you  under- 
stand me,  Judith  ?" 

He  spoke  with  little  tenderness,  and  certainly  with  no  show 
of  lover-like  anxiety ;  but  he  was  in  earnest ;  and  she  had  a  ter^ 
rible  conviction  pressing  upon  her  that  her  wit  might  not  be 
able  to  save  her.  The  others  she  could  easily  elude  when  she 
was  in  the  mind ;  this  one  spoke  close  and  clear ;  she  was  afraid 
to  look  up  and  face  his  keen,  acquisitive  eyes. 

"And  if  I  do  understaiid  you,  good  Master  Blaise,"  said  she, 
desperately;  "if  I  do  understand  you— as  I  confess  I  have 
gathered  something  of  this  before — but — but  surely — one  such 
as  I — such  as  you  say  I  am— might  she  not  become  j)ious — 
and  seek  to  have  her  soul  saved — without  also  having  to  marry 
a  parson  ? — if  such  be  your  meaning,  good  Master  Blaise." 

It  was  she  who  was  in  distress  and  in  embarrassment ;  not  he. 

' '  You  are  not  situated  as  many  others  are, "  said  he.  ' '  You 
owe  your  life,  as  one  may  say,  to  the  prayers  of  God's  people ; 
I  but  put  before  you  one  way  in  which  you  could  repay  the 
debt — by  laboring  in  the  Lord's  viueyai'd,  and  giving  the  health 
and  cheerfulness  that  have  been  bestowed  on  you  to  the  com- 
fort of  those  less  fortunate — " 

"  I  ?  Such  a  one  as  I  ?  Nay,  nay,  you  have  shown  me  how 
all  unfit  I  were  for  that,"  she  exclaimed,  glad  of  this  one  loop- 
hole. 

"I  will  not  commend  you,  Judith,  to  your  face,"  said  he, 
calmly,  "nor  praise  such  worldly  gifts  as  others,  it  may  be, 
overvalue;  but  in  truth  I  may  say  you  have  a  way  of  winning 
people  toward  you  ;  your  presence  is  welcome  to  the  sick;  your 
cheerfulness  gladdens  the  troubled  in  heart;  and  you  have 
youth  and  strength  and  an  intelligence  beyond  that  of  many. 
Are  all  these  to  be  thrown  away  ? — to  wither  and  perish  as  the 
years  go  by  ?  Nay,  I  seek  not  to  urge  my  suit  to  you  by  idle 
words  of  wooing,  as  they  call  it,  or  by  allurements  of  llattery; 
these  are  the  foolish  devices  of  the  ballad-mongers  and  tlie 
playei-s,  and  are  well  fitted,  I  doubt  not,  for  the  purposes  of  the 
master  of  these,  the  father  of  lies  himself;  rather  would  I  speak 
to  you  words  of  sober  truth  and  reason;  I  would' show  you 
how  you  can  make  yourself  useful  in  the  garden  of  the  Lord, 
and  so  offer  some  thauks^fiving  for  the  bounties  bestowed  on 


114  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

you.  Pray  consider  it,  Judith ;  I  ask  not  for  yea  or  nay  at 
this  moment;  I  would  have  your  heart  meditate  over  it  in 
your  own  privacy,  when  you  can  betliink  you  of  what  has  hap- 
pened to  you  and  what  may  happen  to  you  in  the  future. 
Life  has  been  glad  for  you  so  far;  but  trouble  might  come; 
your  relatives  are  older  than  you ;  you  might  be  left  so  that 
you  would  be  thankful  to  have  one  beside  you  whose  arm  you 
could  lean  on  in  time  of  distress.  Think  over  it,  Judith,  and 
may  God  incline  your  heart  to  what  is  right  and  best  for  you." 

But  at  this  moment  the  first  of  the  early  comers  began  to 
make  their  appearance— strolling  along  toward  the  church- 
yard, and  chatting  to  each  other  as  they  came— and  all  at 
once  it  occurred  to  her  that  if  he  and  she  separated  thus,  he 
might  consider  that  she  had  given  some  silent  acquiescence 
to  his  reasons  and  arguments ;  and  this  possibility  alarmed  her. 

"Good  Master  Blaise,"  said  she,  hurriedly,  "pray  mistake 
me  not.  Surely,  if  you  are  choosing  a  helpmeet  for  such  high 
and  holy  reasons,  it  wei-e  well  that  you  looked  further  afield. 
I  am  all  unworthy  for  such  a  place— indeed  I  know  it;  there  is 
not  a  maid  in  Stratford  that  would  not  better  become  it ;  nay, 
for  my  own  part,  I  know  several  that  I  could  point  out  to 
you,  though  your  own  judgment  were  best  in  such  a  matter. 
I  pray  you  think  no  more  of  me  in  regard  to  such  a  position ; 
God  help  me,  I  should  make  a  parson's  wife  such  as  all  the 
neighbors  would  stare  at ;  indeed  I  know  there  be  many  you 
could  choose  from— if  their  heart  were  set  in  that  direction— - 
that  are  far  better  than  I. " 

And  with  this  protest  she  would  fain  have  got  away ;  and  she 
was  all  anxiety  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  Prudence,  whose  appear- 
ance would  afford  her  a  fair  excuse.  How  delightful  would 
be  the  silence  of  the  great  building  and  the  security  of  the  oak- 
en pew !  with  what  a  peace  of  mind  would  she  regard  the  soft- 
colored  beams  of  light  streaming  into  the  chancel,  and  listen 
to  the  solemn  organ  music,  and  wait  for  the  silver-clear  tones 
of  Susan's  voice !  But  good  Master  Walter  would  have  anoth- 
er word  with  her  ere  allowing  her  to  depart. 

"In  truth  you  misjudge  yourself,  Judith,"  said  he,  with  a 
firm  assurance,  as  if  he  could  read  her  heart  far  better  than 
she  herself.  "I  know  more  of  the  duties  pertaining  to  such  a 
station  than  you ;  I  can  foresee'  that  you  would  fulfill  them 


A  REMONSTRANCE.  115 

worthily,  and  in  a  manner  pleasing  to  the  Lord.  Your  parents, 
too:  will  you  not  consider  their  wishes  before  saying  a  final 
nay  ?" 

"My  parents  ?"  she  said,  and  she  looked  up  with  a  quick  sur- 
prise.    "My  mother,  it  may  be—" 

"And  if  your  father  were  to  approve  also  ?" 

For  an  instant  her  heart  felt  like  lead ;  but  before  this  sud- 
den fright  had  had  time  to  tell  its  tale  in  her  eyes  she  had  re- 
assured herself.     This  was  not  possible. 

' '  Has  ray  father  expressed  any  such  wish  ?"  said  she ;  but 
well  she  knew  what  the  reply  would  be. 

"No,  he  has  not,  Judith,"  he  said,  distinctly;  "for  I  have 
not  spoken  to  him.  But  if  I  were  to  obtain  his  approval,  would 
that  influence  you  ?" 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  I  should  not  despair,  of  gaining  that,"  said  he,  with  a  calm 
confidence  that  caused  her  to  lift  her  eyes  and  regard  him  for 
a  second,  with  a  kind  of  wonder,  as  it  were,  for  she  knew  not 
what  this  assurance  meant.  "Your  father,"  he  continued, 
"must  naturally  deshe  to  see  your  future  made  secure,  Judith. 
Think  what  would  happen  to  you  all  if  an  accident  befell  him 
on  his  journeyings  to  London.  There  would  be  no  man  to  pro- 
tect you  and  your  mother.  Dr.  Hall  has  his  own  household 
and  its  charges,  and  two  women  left  by  themselves  would  sure- 
ly feel  the  want  of  guidance  and  help.  If  I  put  these  worldly 
considerations  before  you,  it  is  with  no  wish  that  you  should 
forget  the  higher  duty  you  owe  to  God  and  His  Church,  and 
the  care  you  should  have  of  your  own  soul.  Do  I  speak  for 
myself  alone?  I  think  not.  I  trust  it  is  not  merely  selfish 
hopes  that  have  bidden  me  appeal  to  you.  And  you  will  re- 
flect, Judith;  you  will  commune  with  yourself  before  saying 
the  final  yea  or  nay;  and  if  your  father  should  approve — " 

"Good  Master  Blaise,"  said  she,  interrupting  him — and  she 
rose  and  glanced  toward  the  straggling  groups  now  approach- 
ing the  church — "I  can  not  forbid  you  to  speak  to  my  father, 
if  it  is  your  wish  to  do  that;  but  I  would  have  him  understand 
that  it  is  through  no  desire  of  mine ;  and — and,  in  truth,  he 
must  know  that  I  am  all  unfit  to  take  the  charge  you  would 
put  upon  me.  I  pray  you  hold  it  in  kindness  that  I  say  so: — 
and  there,  now,"  she  quickly  added,  "is  little  Willie  Hart,  that 


lit)  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

I  have  a  message  for,  lest  lie  escape  me  when  we  come  out 
again." 

He  could  not  fui'ther  detain  her;  but  he  accompanied  her 
as  she  walked  along  the  path  toward  the  little  swinging  gate, 
for  she  could  see  that  her  small  cousin,  though  he  had  caught 
sight  of  her,  was  shyly  uncertain  as  to  whether  he  should  come 
to  her,  and  she  wished  to  have  his  hand  as  far  as  the  churcij 
door.  And  then — alas !  that  such  things  should  befall — at  the 
very  same  moment  a  number  of  the  young  men  and  maidens 
also  entei-ed  the  church-yard ;  and  foi-emost  among  them  was 
Tom  Quiney.  One  rapid  glance  that  he  directed  toward  her 
and  the  parson  was  all  that  passed ;  but  instantly  in  her  heart 
of  hearts  she  knew  the  suspicion  that  he  had  formed.  An  as- 
signation ? — and  on  a  Sunday  morning,  too !  Nay,  her  guess 
was  quickly  confirmed.  He  did  not  stay  to  pay  her  even  the 
ordinary  courtesy  of  a  greeting.  He  went  on  with  the  others ; 
he  was  walking  with  two  of  the  girls ;  his  laughter  and  talk 
were  louder  than  any.  Indeed,  this  unseemly  mii'th  was  con- 
tinued to  within  a  yard  or  two  of  the  church  door— perhaps 
it  was  meant  for  her  to  hear  ? 

Little  Willie  Hart,  as  he  and  his  cousin  Judith  went  hand  in 
hand  through  the  porch,  happened  to  look  up  at  her. 

"  Judith,  "said  he,  "why  are  you  crying  ?" 

"I  am  not!"  she  said,  angrily.  And  with  her  hand  she 
dashed  aside  those  quick  tears  of  vexation. 

The  boy  did  not  pay  close  heed  to  what  now  went  on  within 
the  hushed  building.  He  was  wondering  over  what  had  oc- 
curred— for  these  mysteries  were  beyond  his  years.  But  at 
leastjie  knew  that  his  cousin  Judith  was  no  longer  angry  with 
him ;  for  she  had  taken  him  into  the  pew  with  her,  and  her  arm, 
that  was  interlinked  with  his,  was  soft  and  warm  and  gentle 
to  the  touch ;  and  once  or  twice,  when  the  service  bade  them 
to  stand  up,  she  had  put  her  hand  kindly  on  his  hair.  And 
not  only  that,  but  she  had  at  the  outset  taken  from  her  bosom 
the  little  nosegay  of  mint  and  given  it  to  him ;  and  the  per- 
fume of  it  (for  it  was  Judith's  gift,  and  she  had  worn  it  near 
her  heai't,  and  she  had  given  it  him  with  a  velvet  touch  of 
her  fingers)  seemed  to  him  a  strange  and  sweet  and  mystical 
thing— something  almost  as  strange  and  sweet  and  inexplica- 
ble as  the  beauty  and  shining  tenderness  of  her  eyes. 


DIVIDED   WAYS.  117 


CHAPTER  XII. 

DIVIDED    WAYS. 

Some  few  weeks  passed  quite  uneventfully,  bringing  them 
to  the  end  of  June;  and  then  it  was  that  Mistress  Hathaway 
chanced  to  send  a  message  into  the  town  that  she  would  have 
her  granddaughter  Judith  come  over  to  see  her  roses,  of  which 
there  was  a  gi'eat  show  in  the  garden.  Judith  was  nothing 
loath ;  she  felt  she  had  somewhat  neglected  the  old  dame  of  late ; 
and  so,  one  morning — or  rather  one  mid-day  it  was,  for  the  fam- 
ily had  but  finished  dinner — found  her  in  her  own  rq®m,  be- 
fore her  mirror,  busy  with  an  out-of-door  toilet,  with  Prudence 
sitting  patiently  by.  Judith  seemed  well  content  with  herself 
and  with  affairs  in  general  on  this  warm  summer  day;  now 
she  spoke  to  Prudence,  again  she-  idly  sang  a  scrap  of  some  fa- 
miliar song,  while  the  work  of  adornment  went  on  apace. 

"But  why  such  bravery,  Judith?"  her  friend  said,  with  a 
quiet  smile.  ' '  Why  should  you  take  such  heed  about  a  walk 
through  the  fields  to  Shottery  ?" 

"Truly  I  know  not,"  said  Judith,  carelessly;  "but  well  I 
wot  my  grandmother  will  grumble.  If  I  am  soberly  dressed, 
she  says  I  am  a  sloven,  and  will  never  win  me  a  husband ; 
and  if  I  am  pranked  out,  she  says  I  am  vain,  and  will  frighten 
away  the  young  men  with  my  pride.  In  Heaven's  name,  let 
them  go,  say  I;  I  can  do  excellent  Avell  without  them.  What 
think  you  of  the  cap,  good  Prue  ?  'Twas  but  last  night  I  fin- 
ished it,  and  the  beads  I  had  from  Warwick." 

She  took  it  up  and  regarded  it,  humming  the  while: 

"  0  say,  mi/  Joan,  say,  my  Joan,  will  not  that  do  ? 
I  can  not  come  every  day  to  woo.'''' 

"  Is't  not  a  pretty  cap,  good  gossip  ?" 

Prudence  knew  that  she  ought  to  despise  such  frivolities, 
which  truly  were  a  snare  to  her,  for  she  liked  to  look  at  Ju- 
dith when  she  was  dressed  as  she  was  now,  and  she  forgot  to 
condemn  tlicsc  pretty  colors.     On  this  occasion  Judith  was 


118  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE, 

clad  in  a  gown  of  light  gray,  or  rather  buff,  with  a  petticoat  of 
pale  blue  taffeta,  elaborately  quilted  with  her  own  handiwork; 
the  small  ruff  she  wore,  which  was  ojien  in  front,  and  partly 
showed  her  neck,  was  snow-white  and  stiffly  starched ;  and  she 
was  now  engaged  in  ^jutting  on  her  soft  brown  hair  this  cap 
of  gray  velvet,  adorned  with  two  rows  of  brass  beads,  and  with 
a  bit  of  curling  feather  at  the  side  of  it.  Prudence's  eyes  were 
pleased,  if  her  conscience  bade  her  disapprove;  nay,  sometimes 
she  had  to  confess  that  at  heart  she  was  proud  to  see  her  dear 
gossip  wear  such  pretty  things,  for  that  she  became  them  so  well. 

"Judith,"  said  she,  "shall  I  tell  you  what  I  heard  your 
father  say  of  you  last  night  ?  He  was  talking  to  Julius,  and 
they  were  speaking  of  this  one  and  that,  and  how  they  did; 
and  when  you  were  mentioned,  '  Oh  yes,'  says  your  father,  '  the 
wench  looks  bravely  well ;  'tis  a  pity  she  can  not  sell  the  paint- 
ing of  her  cheeks :  there  may  be  many  a  dame  at  the  court  would 
buy  it  of  her  for  a  goodly  sum.'  " 

Judith  gave  a  quick,  short  laugh :  this  was  music  in  her  ears 
— coming  from  whence  it  did. 

"But,  Judith,"  said  her  friend,  with  a  grave  inquiry  in  her 
face,  "what  is't  that  you  have  done  to  Tom  Quiney  that  he 
comes  no  longer  near  the  house  ?— nay,  he  will  avoid  you  when 
he  happens  to  see  you  abroad,  for  that  I  have  observed  myself, 
and  more  than  once.  What  is  the  matter  ?  How  have  you 
offended  him  ?" 

"What  have  I  done  ?"  she  said;  and  there  was  a  swift  and 
angry  color  in  her  face.  "Let  him  ask  what  his  own  evil  im- 
aginings have  done.     Not  that  I  care,  in  good  sooth !" 

"  But  what  is  it,  Judith  ?     There  must  be  a  reason." 

"Why,"  said  Judith,  turning  indignantly  to  her,  "you  re- 
member, sweetheart,  the  Sunday  morning  that  Mrs.  Pike's  lit- 
tle boy  was  taken 'ill,  and  you  were  sent  for,  and  did  not  come 
to  church  ?  Well,  I  had  gone  along  to  the  church-yard  to 
seek  you,  and  was  waiting  for  you,  when  who  must  needs 
make  his  appearance  but  the  worthy  Master  Blaise— nay,  but 
I  told  you,  good  Prue,  the  honor  he  would  put  upon  me ;  and 
thank  Heaven,  he  hath  not  returned  to  it,  nor  spoken  to  my  fa- 
ther yet,  as  far  as  I  can  learn.  Then,  when  the  good  parson's 
sermon  was  over— body  o'  me,  he  let  me  know  right  sharply 
I  was  no  saint,  though  a  saint  I  might  become,  no  doubt,  were 


DIVIDED   WAYS.  119 

I  to  take  him  for  my  master — as  I  say,  the  lecture  he  gave  me 
was  over,  and  we  were  walking-  to  the  church  door,  when  who 
should  come  by  but  Master  Quiney  and  some  of  the  others. 
Oh,  well  I  know  my  gentleman  !  The  instant  he  clapped  eyes 
on  me  he  suspected  there  had  been  a  planned  meeting — I  could 
see  it  well — and  off  he  goes  in  high  dudgeon,  and  not  a  word 
nor  a  look — before  the  others,  mind  you,  before  the  others, 
good  Prue ;  that  was  the  slight  he  put  upon  me.  Marry,  I  care 
not !     Whither  he  has  gone,  there  he  may  stay !" 

She  spoke  rapidly  and  with  warmth :  despite  the  scorn  that 
was  in  her  voice,  it  was  clear  that  that  public  slight  had  touch- 
ed her  deeply. 

"Nay,  Judith,"  said  her  gentle  companion,  "  'twere  surely  a 
world  of  pity  you  should  let  an  old  friend  go  away  like  that — 
thi'ough  a  mischance  merely — " 

"An  old  friend  ?"  said  she.  "  I  want  none  of  such  friends, 
that  have  ill  thoughts  of  you  ere  you  can  speak.  Let  him 
choose  his  friends  elsewhei'e,  say  I ;  let  him  kee^)  to  his  tap- 
sters, and  his  ale-house  wenches;  there  he  will  have  enough 
of  pleasure,  I  doubt  not,  till  his  head  be  broke  in  a  brawl 
some  night !" 

Then  something  seemed  to  occur  to  her.  All  at  once  she 
threw  aside  the  bit  of  ribbon  she  had  in  her  fingers,  and 
dropped  on  her  knee  before  her  friend,  and  seized  hold  of  Pru- 
dence's hands. 

"I  beseech  your  pardon,  sweet  Prue! — indeed,  indeed,  I 
knew  not  what  I  said ;  they  were  but  idle  words ;  good  mouse, 
I  pray  you  heed  them  not.  He  may  have  reasons  for  distrust- 
ing me;  and  in  truth  I  complain  not;  'tis  a  small  matter;  but 
I  would  not  have  you  think  ill  of  him  through  these  idle  words 
of  mine.  Nay,  nay,  they  tell  me  he  is  sober  and  diligent,  that 
his  business  prospers,  that  he  makes  many  friends,  and  that  the 
young  men  regard  him  as  the  chief  of  them,  whether  it  be  at 
merriment  or  aught  else." 

"I  am  right  glad  to  hear  you  speak  so  of  the  young  man,  Ju- 
dith," Prudence  said,  in  her  gentle  way,  and  yet  mildly  won- 
dering at  this  sudden  change  of  tone.  "  If  he  has  displeased 
you,  be  sure  he  will  be  sorry  for  it,  when  he  knows  the  truth." 
"  Nay,  nay,  sweet  mouse,"  Judith  said,  rising  and  resuming 
her  careless  manner,  as  she  picked  up  the  ribbon  she  had  thrown 


120  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

aside.  " 'Tis  of  no  moment.  I  Avish  the  young  man  well. 
I  pray  you  speak  to  none  of  that  I  have  told  you ;  perchance 
'twas  but  an  accident,  and  he  meant  no  slight  at  all;  and  then 
— and  then, "  she  added,  with  a  kind  of  laugh,  ' '  as  the  good  par- 
son seems  determined  that  willy-nilly  I  must  wed  him  and  help 
him  in  his  charge  of  souls,  that  were  a  good  ending,  sweet 
Prue  ?" 

She  was  now  all  equipped  for  setting  forth,  even  to  the  fea- 
ther fan  that  hung  from  her  girdle  by  a  small  silver  cord. 

' '  But  I  know  he  hath  not  spoken  to  my  father  yet,  else  I 
should  have  heard  of  it,  in  jest  or  otherwise.  Come,  mouse, 
shall  we  go  ?  or  the  good  dame  will  have  a  scolding  for  us." 

Indeed,  this  chance  reference  to  the  slight  jjut  upon  her  in 
the  church-yard  seemed  to  have  left  no  sting  behind  it.  She 
was  laughing  as  she  went  down  the  stair,  at  some  odd  saying 
of  Bess  Hall's  that  her  father  had  got  hold  of.  When  they 
went  outside  she  linked  her  arm  within  that  of  her  friend,  and 
nodded  to  this  or  the  other  passer-by,  and  had  a  merry  or  a 
pleasant  word  for  them,  accordingly  as  they  greeted  her.     And 

Green  sleeves  was  all  my  joy, 
Oreen  sleeves  ivas  my  delight, 

came  naturally  into  her  idle  brain ;  for  the  day  seemed  a  fit  one 
for  holiday-making:  the  skies  were  clear,  with  large  white 
clouds  moving  slowly  across  the  blue;  and  there  was  a  fair 
west  wind  to  stir  the  leaves  of  the  trees  and  the  bushes,  and  to 
touch  warmly  and  softly  her  pink-hued  cheek  and  pearly 
neck. 

"Ah,  me,"  said  she,  in  mock  desolation,  "why  should  one 
go  nowadays  to  Shottery  ?  What  use  is  in't,  sweet  Prue,  when 
all  the  magic  and  enticement  is  gone  from  it  ?  Aforetime  I  had 
the  chance  of  meeting  with  so  gracious  a  young  gentleman, 
that  brought  news  of  the  King's  court,  and  spoke  so  soft  you 
would  think  the  cuckoo  in  the  woods  was  still  to  listen.  That 
were  something  to  expect  when  one  had  walked  so  far — the 
apparition — a  trembling  interview — and  then  so  civil  and  sweet 
a  farewell !  But  now  he  is  gone  away,  I  l<:now  not  whither ;  and 
he  has  forgotten  that  ever  he  lodged  in  a  farm-house,  like  a  king 
consoi'ting  with  shepherds ;  and  doubtless  he  will  not  seek  to 
return.     Well — " 


DIVIDED  WAYS.  121 

"You  have  never  heard  of  him  since,  Judith?"  her  friend 
said,  with  a  rapid  look. 

"Alas,  no!"  she  said,  in  the  same  simulated  vein.  "And 
sometimes  I  ask  myself  whether  there  ever  was  such  a  youth 
— whether  the  world  ever  did  produce  such  a  courtly  gentleman, 
such  a  paragon,  such  a  marvel  of  courtesy — or  was  it  not  but  a 
trick  of  the  villain  wizai-d  ?  Think  of  it,  good  Prue — to  have 
been  walking  and  talking  with  a  ghost,  with  a  thing  of  air, 
and  that  twice,  too !  Is't  not  enough  to  chill  the  marrow  in 
your  bones  ?  Well,  I  would  that  all  ghosts  were  as  gentle  and 
mannerly ;  there  would  be  less  fear  of  them  among  the  War- 
wickshire wenches.  But  do  you  know,  good  Prue,"  she  said, 
suddenly  altering  her  tone  into  something  of  eagerness,  "there 
is  a  matter  of  more  moment  than  ghosts  that  concerns  us  now. 
By  this  time,  or  I  am  mistaken  quite,  there  must  be  a  goodly 
bulk  of  the  new  play  lying  in  the  oaken  chest;  and  again  and 
again  have  I  tried  to  see  whether  I  might  dare  to  carry  away 
some  of  the  sheets,  but  always  there  was  some  one  to  hinder. 
My  father,  you  know,  has  been  much  in  the  summer-house  since 
the  business  of  the  new  twenty  aci'es  was  settled;  and  then 
again,  when  by  chance  he  has  gone  away  with  the  bailiif  some- 
where, and  I  have  had  my  eye  on  tlie  place,  there  was  good- 
man  Matthew  on  the  watch,  or  else  a  maid  would  come  by  to 
gather  a  dish  of  gi*een  gooseberries  for  the  baking,  or  Susan 
would  have  me  seek  out  a  ripe  raspberry  or  two  for  the  child, 
or  my  mother  would  call  to  me  from  the  brew-house.  But  'tis 
there,  Prue,  be  sure ;  and  there  will  come  a  chance,  I  warrant ; 
I  will  outwit  the  ancient  Matthew — " 

"  Do  you  never  bethink  you,  Judith,  what  your  father  would 
say  were  he  to  discover  V  her  friend  said,  glancing  at  her,  as 
they  walked  along  the  highway. 

Judith  laughed,  but  with  some  heightened  color. 

"My  father  ?"  said  she.  "  Truly,  if  he  alone  were  to  discov- 
er, I  should  have  easy  penance.  Were  it  between  himself  and 
me,  methinks  there  were  no  great  harm  done.  A  daugliter 
may  fairly  seek  to  know  the  means  that  has  gained  for  her  fa- 
ther the  commend^ion  of  so  many  of  the  great  people,  and 
placed  him  in.  such  good  estate  in  his  own  town.  Marry,  I 
fear  not  my  father's  knowing,  were  I  to  confess  to  himself; 
but  as  for  tlic  others,  were  they  to  learn  of  it — my  mother,  and 


122  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

Susan,  and  Dr.  Hall,  and  the  pious  Master  Walter— I  trow 
there  might  be  some  stormy  weather  aboard.  At  all  events, 
good  Prue,  in  any  such  mischance,  you  shall  not  suffer ;  'tis  I 
that  will  bear  the  blame,  and  all  the  blame ;  for  indeed  I  forced 
you  to  it,  sweet  mouse,  and  you  are  as  innocent  of  the  wicked- 
ness as  though  you  had  ne'er  been  boi'n." 

And  now  they  were  just  about  to  leave  the  main  road  for  the 
foot-path  leading  to  Shottery,  when  they  heard  the  sound  of 
some  one  coming  along  on  horseback ;  and  turning  for  a  sec- 
ond, they  found  it  was  young  Tom  Quiney,  who  was  on  a 
smart  galloway  nag,  and  coming  at  a  goodly  pace.  As  he 
passed  them  he  took  off  his  cap,  and  lowered  it  with  formal 
courtesy. 

"Give  ye  good-day,"  said  he;  but  he  scarcely  looked  at 
them,  nor  did  he  pull  up  for  further  talk  or  greeting. 

"We  are  in  such  haste  to  be  rich  nowadays,"  said  Judith, 
with  a  touch  of  scorn  in  her  voice,  as  the  two  maidens  set  forth 
to  walk  through  the  meadows,  "that  we  have  scarce  time  to 
be  civil  to  our  friends." 

But  she  bore  away  no  ill-will ;  the  day  was  too  fine  for  that. 
The  soft  west  wind  was  tempering  the  heat  and  stirring  the 
leaves  of  the  elms;  red  and  white  wild  roses  were  sprinkled 
among  the  dark  green  of  the  hedges ;  there  was  a  perfume  of 
elder  blossom  in  the  air;  and  perhaps  also  a  faint  scent  of  hay, 
for  in  the  distance  they  could  see  the  mowers  at  work  among 
the  clover,  and  could  see  the  long  sweep  of  the  scythe.  The 
sun  lay  warm  on  the  grass  and  the  wild  flowers  around  them ; 
there  was  a  perfect  silence  but  for  the  singing  of  the  birds; 
and  now  and  again  they  could  see  one  of  the  mowers  cease 
from  his  work,  and  a  soft  clinking  sound  told  them  that  he 
was  sharpening  the  long,  curving  blade.  They  did  not  walk 
quickly ;  it  was  an  idle  day. 

Presently  some  one  came  up  behind  them  and  overtook 
them.  It  was  young  Master  Quiney,  who  seemed  to  have 
changed  his  mind,  and  was  now  on  foot. 

"  You  are  going  over  to  Shottery,  Prudence  ?"  said  he. 

Prudence  flushed  uneasily.  Why  should  he  address  her, 
and  have  no  word  for  Judith  ? 

"Yes,"  said  she;  "Mistress  Hathaway  would  have  us  see 
her  roses;  she  is  right  proud  of  them  this  year." 


DIVIDED  WAYS.  123 

"'Tis  a  good  year  for  roses,"  said  he,  in  a  matter-of-fact 
way,  and  as  if  there  were  no  restraint  at  all  on  any  of  the 
party. 

And  then  it  seemed  to  occur  to  him  that  he  ought  to  account 
for  his  presence. 

"I  guessed  you  were  going  to  Shottery,"  said  he,  indifferent- 
ly, and  still  addressing  himself  exclusively  to  Prudence ;  "  and 
I  got  a  lad  to  take  on  the  nag  and  meet  me  at  the  cross-road; 
the  short-cut  through  the  meadows  is  pleasant  walking.  To 
Mistress  Hatha  way's,  said  you  ?  I  dare  promise  you  will  be 
pleased  with  the  show ;  there  never  was  such  a  year  for  roses ; 
and  not  a  touch  of  blight  anywhere,  as  I  have  heard.  And  a 
fine  season  for  the  crops,  too ;  just  such  weather  as  the  farmers 
might  pray  for ;  Look  at  that  field  of  rye  over  there,  now — is't 
not  a  goodly  sight  ?" 

He  was  talking  with  much  appearance  of  self-possession ;  it 
was  Prudence  who  was  embarrassed.  As  for  Judith,  she  paid 
no  heed;  she  was  looking  before  her  at  the  hedges  and  the 
elms,  at  the  wild  flowers  around,  and  at  the  field  of  bearded 
rye  that  bent  in  rustling  gray-green  undulations  before  the 
westerly  breeze. 

"And  how  does  your  brother,  Prudence?"  he  continued. 
"  'Tis  well  for  him  his  business  goes  on  from  year  to  year  with- 
out respect  of  the  seasons ;  he  can  sleep  o'  nights  without  think- 
ing of  the  weather.  It  is  the  common  report  that  the  others  of 
the  To^vn  Council  hold  him  in  great  regard,  and  will  have  him 
become  alderman  ere  long:  is  it  not  so?" 

"I  have  heard  some  talk  of  it,"  Prudence  said,  with  her 
eyes  cast  down. 

At  this  moment  they  happened  to  be  passing  some  patches  of 
the  common  mallow  that  were  gi-owing  by  the  side  of  the  path  ; 
and  the  tall  and  handsome  youth  who  was  walking  with  the 
two  girls  (but  who  never  once  let  his  eyes  stray  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Judith)  stooped  down  and  pulled  one  of  the  brightest 
clusters  of  the  pale  lilac  blossoms. 

"You  have  no  flower  in  your  dress.  Prudence,"  said  he, 
off^ering  them  to  her. 

"Nay,  I  care  not  to  wear  them,"  said  she;  and  she  would 
rather  have  declined  tliem;  but  as  he  still  offered  them  to  her, 
how  could  she  help  accepting  them  and  carrying  them  in  her 


124  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

hand  ?  And  then,  in  desperation,  she  turned  and  addressed  the 
perfectly  silent  and  impassive  Judith. 

"Judith,"  said  she,  "you  might  have  brought  the  mastiff 
vsrith  you  for  a  run." 

"Truly  I  might,  sweetheart,"  said  Judith,  cheerfully,  "but 
that  my  grandmother  likes  him  not  in  the  garden ;  his  ways  are 
overrough." 

"Now  that  reminds  me, "said  he,  quickly  (but  always  ad- 
dressing Prudence),  "of  the  little  spaniel-gentle  that  I  have. 
Do  you  know  the  dog,  Prudence  ?  'Tis  accounted  a  great  beau- 
ty, and  of  the  true  Maltese  breed.  Will  you  accept  him  from 
me  ?  In  truth  I  will  hold  it  a  favor  if  you  will  take  the  little 
creature." 

"I?"  said  Prudence,  with  much  amazement;  for  she  had 
somehow  vaguely  heard  that  the  dog  had  been  purchased  and 
brought  to  Stratford  for  the  very  purpose  of  being  presented 
to  Judith. 

' '  I  assure  you  'tis  just  such  an  one  as  would  make  a  pleasant 
companion  for  you,"  said  he;  "a  gentle  creatui^e  as  ever  was, 
and  affectionate  too — a  most  pleasant  and  frolicsome  playfel- 
low. Will  you  take  it.  Prudence  ? — for  what  can  I  do  with  the 
little  beast  ?     I  have  no  one  to  look  after  it." 

"I  had  thought  you  meant  Judith  to  have  the  spaniel,"  said 
she,  simply. 

"Nay,  how  would  that  do,  sweetheart  ?"  said  Judith,  calmly. 
' '  Do  you  think  the  Don  would  brook  such  invasion  of  his  do- 
main ?  Would  you  have  the  little  thing  killed  ?  You  should 
take  it,  good  cousin ;  'twill  be  company  for  you  should  you  be 
alone  in  the  house." 

She  had  spoken  quite  as  if  she  had  been  engaged  in  the  con- 
versation all  the  way  through ;  there  was  no  appearance  of  an- 
ger or  resentment  at  his  ostentatious  ignoring  of  her  presence* 
whatever  she  felt  she  was  too  proud  to  show. 

' '  Then  you  will  take  the  dog,  Prudence, "  said  he.  ' '  I  know 
I  could  not  give  it  into  gentler  hands,  for  you  could  not  but 
show  it  kindness,  as  you  show  to  all." 

"Give  ye  good  thanks,"  said  Prudence,  with  her  pale  face 
flushing  with  renewed  embarrassment,  "for  the  offer  of  the 
gift ;  but  in  truth  I  doubt  if  it  be  right  and  seemly  to  waste  such 
care  on  a  dumb  animal  when  there  be  so  many  of  our  fellow- 


DIVIDED  WAYS.  125 

creatures  that  have  more  pressing  claims  on  us.  And  there 
are  enough  of  temptations  to  idleness  without  our  willfully  add- 
ing to  them.  But  I  thank  you  for  the  intention  of  your  kind- 
ness— indeed  I  do." 

"Nay,  now,  you  shall  have  it,  good  Prudence,  whether  you 
will  or  no,"  said  he,  with  a  laugh.  "You  shall  bear  with  the 
little  dog  but  for  a  week,  that  I  beg  of  you;  and  then  if  it 
please  you  not,  if  you  find  no  amusement  in  its  tricks  and  an- 
tics, I  will  take  it  back  again.  'Tis  a  bargain ;  but  as  to  your 
sending  of  it  back,  I  have  no  fears ;  I  warrant  you  'twill  over- 
come your  scruples,  for  'tis  a  most  cunning  and  crafty  playfel- 
low, and  merry  withal ;  nor  will  it  hinder  you  from  being  as 
kind  and  helpful  to  those  around  you  as  you  have  ever  been. 
I  envy  the  dog  that  is  to  have  so  gentle  a  guardian." 

They  were  now  come  to  a  parting  of  the  ways ;  and  he  said 
he  would  turn  off  to  the  left,  so  as  to  reach  the  lane  at  the  end 
of  which  his  nag  was  awaiting  him. 

' '  And  with  your  leave,  Prudence, "  said  he,  "I  will  bring  the 
little  spaniel  to  your  house  this  evening,  for  I  am  only  going 
now  as  far  as  Bidford;  and  if  your  brother  be  at  home  he  may 
have  half  an  hour  to  spare,  that  we  may  have  a  chat  about  the 
Corporation,  and  tbe  new  ordinances  they  propose  to  make. 
And  so  fare  you  well,  and  good  wishes  go  with  you !" 

And  with  that  he  departed,  and  was  soon  out  of  sight. 

"Oh,  Judith,"  Prudence  exclaimed,  almost  melting  into 
tears,  "my  heart  is  heavy  to  see  it !" 

"What,  then,  good  cousin?"  said  Judith,  lightly. 

"Tlie  quarrel." 

"The  quarrel,  dear  heart!  Think  of  no  such  thing.  In  sober 
truth,  dear  Prudence,  I  would  not  have  matters  otlier  than  tliey 
are ;  I  would  not ;  I  am  well  content ;  and  as  for  Master  Quiney, 
is  not  he  improved?  Did  ever  mortal  hear  him  speak  so  fair 
before  ?  Marry,  he  hath  been  learning  good  manners,  and  pro- 
fited well.  But  there  it  is:  you  are  so  gentle,  sweetheart,  that 
every  one,  no  matter  who,  must  find  you  good  company; 
while  I  am  fractious,  and  ill  to  bear  with;  and  do  I  marvel 
to  see  any  one  prefer  your  smooth  ways  and  even  disposition  ? 
And  when  he  comes  to-night,  heed  you,  you  must  thank  him 
riglit  civilly  for  bringing  you  the  little  spaniel;  'tis  a  great  fa- 
vor ;  the  dog  is  one  of  value  that  many  would  prize — " 


126  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

"  I  can  not  take  it — I  will  not  have  it.  'Twas  meant  for 
you,  Judith,  as  well  you  know,"  the  other  cried,  in  real  distress. 

"But  you  must  and  shall  accept  the  gift,"  her  friend  said, 
with  decision.  "  Ay,  and  sliow  yourself  grateful  for  his  having 
singled  you  out  withal.  Neither  himself  nor  liis  spaniel  would 
go  long  a-begging  in  Stratford,  I  warrant  you :  give  him  friend- 
ly welcome,  sweetheart." 

"He  went  away  without  a  word  to  you,  Judith." 

"I  am  content." 

"But  why  should  it  be  thus?"  Prudence  said,  almost  pite- 
ously. 

' '  Why  ?  Dear  mouse,  I  have  told  you.  He  and  I  never  did 
agree;  'twas  ever  something  wrong  on  one  side  or  the  other; 
and  wherefore  should  not  he  look  around  for  a  gentler  com- 
panion ?  'Twere  a  wonder  should  he  do  aught  else ;  and  now 
he  hath  shown  more  wisdom  than  ever  I  laid  to  his  credit." 

"But  the  ungraciousness  of  his  going,  Judith,"  said  the  gen- 
tle Prudence,  who  could  in  no  wise  understand  the  apparent 
coolness  with  which  Judith  seemed  to  regard  the  desperate 
thing  that  had  taken  place. 

"Heaven  have  mercy!  why  should  that  trouble  you  if  it 
harm  not  me?"  was  the  instant  answer.  "My  spirits  are  not 
like  to  be  dashed  down  for  want  of  a  '  fare  you  well.'  In  good 
sooth  he  had  given  you  so  much  of  his  coui'tesy  and  fair  speech- 
es that  perchance  he  had  none  to  spare  for  others." 

By  this  time  they  were  come  to  the  little  wooden  gate  lead- 
ing into  the  garden ;  and  it  was  no  wonder  they  should  j)ause 
in  passing  through  that  to  regard  the  bewildering  and  glow- 
ing luxuriance  of  foliage  and  blossom,  though  this  was  but  a 
cottage  inclosure,  and  none  of  the  largest.  The  air  seemed  fill- 
ed with  the  perfume  of  this  summer  abundance;  and  the  clear 
sunlight  shone  on  the  various  masses  of  color — roses  red  and 
white,  pansies,  snapdragon,  none-so-pretty,  sweet-williams  of 
every  kind,  to  say  nothing  of  the  clustering  honeysuckle  that 
surrounded  the  cottage  door. 

"  Was't  not  worth  the  trouble,  sweetheart?"  Judith  said. 
"Indeed,  the  good  dame  does  well  to  be  proud  of  such  a  pa- 
geant." 

As  she  spoke  her  grandmother  suddenly  made  her  appear- 
ance,  glancing  sharply  from  one  to  the  other  of  them. 


DIVIDED  WAYS.  127 

"Welcome,  child,  welcome,"  she  said,  "and  to  you,  sweet 
Mistress  Shawe." 

Aud  yet  she  did  not  ask  them  to  enter  the  cottage ;  there  was 
some  kind  of  hesitation  about  the  old  dame's  manner  that  was 
unusual. 

"Well,  g-i-andmother,"  said  Judith,  gayly,  "have  you  no 
grumbling  ?  My  cap  I  made  myself ;  then  must  it  be  out  of 
fashion.  Or  I  did  not  make  it  myself;  then  it  must  have  cost 
a  mint  of  money.  Or  what  say  you  to  my  petticoat — does  not 
the  color  offend  you  ?  Shall  I  ever  attain  to  the  pleasing  of 
you,  think  you,  good  grandmother  ?'* 

"Wench,  wench,  hold  your  peace !"  the  old  dame  said,  in  a 
lower  voice.  "  There  is  one  within  that  may  not  like  the  noise 
of  strangers — though  he  be  no  stranger  to  you,  as  he  says — " 

"What,  grandmother  ?"  Judith  exclaimed,  and  involuntarily 
she  shrank  back  a  little,  so  startled  was  she.  ' '  A  stranger  ? 
In  the  cottage  ?  You  do  not  mean  the  young  gentleman  that 
is  in  hiding — that  I  met  in  the  lane — " 

"The  same,  Judith,  the  same,"  she  .said,  quickly ;  "and  I 
kno'.v  not  whether  he  would  wish  to  be  seen  by  more  than  needs 
be—" 

She  glanced  at  Judith,  who  understood:  moreover,  the  latter 
had  pulled  together  her  courage  again. 

"  Have  no  fear,  good  gi^andmothcr,"  said  she;  and  she  turn- 
ed to  Prudence.      "  You  hear,  good  Prue,  who  is  within." 

"Yes,"  the  other  answered,  but  somewhat  breathless. 

"Now,  then,  is  sucli  an  opportunity  as  may  ne'er  occur 
again,"  Judith  said.  "You  will  come  with  me,  good  Prue? 
Nay,  but  you  must." 

"  Indeed  I  shall  not!"  Prudence  exclaimed,  stepping  back  in 
affright.  "Not  for  worlds,  Judith,  would  I  have  aught  to  do 
with  such  a  thing.  And  you,  Judith,  for  my  sake,  come  away ! 
We  will  go  back  to  Stratford ! — we  will  look  at  the  gai'den  some 
other  time! — in  trutli,  I  can  see  your  grandmother  is  of  my 
mind  too.  Judith,  for  the  love  of  me,  come! — let  us  get  away 
from  this  place!" 

Judith  regarded  her  with  a  strange  kind  of  smile. 

"I  have  had  such  courtesy  and  fair  manners  shown  me 
to-day,  sweet  Prue,"  said  she,  with  a  sort  of  gracious  calmness, 
"  that  I  am  fain  to  seek  elsewhei-e  for  some  other  treatment,  lest 


128  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

I  should  grow  vain.  Will  it  please  you  to  wait  for  me  in  the 
garden,  then  ?  Grandmother,  I  am  going  in  Avith  you  to  help 
you  give  your  guest  good  welcome." 

"Judith !"  the  terrified  Prudence  exclaimed,  in  a  kind  of  de- 
spair. 

But  Judith,  with  her  head  erect,  and  with  a  perfect  and 
proud  self-possession,  had  followed  her  grandmother  into  the 
house. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A    HERALD    MERCURY. 


The  distance  between  this  luxuriant  gai^den,  all  radiant  and 
glowing  in  light  and  color,  and  the  small  and  darkened  inner 
room  of  the  cottage,  was  but  a  matter  of  a  few  yards ;  yet  in 
that  brief  space,  so  alert  was  her  brain,  she  had  time  to  recon- 
sider much.  And,  with  her,  pride  or  anger  was  always  of  short 
duration,  the  sunny  cheerfulness  of  her  nature  refusing  to  har- 
bor such  uncongenial  guests.  Why,  she  asked  herself,  should 
she  take  umbrage  at  the  somewhat  too  ojDen  neglect  that  had 
just  been  shown  her  ?  Was  it  not  tending  in  the  very  direction 
she  had  herself  desired  ?  Had  she  not  begged  and  prayed  him 
to  give  Prudence  the  little  spaniel-gentle  ?  Nay,  had  she  not 
willfully  gone  and  buried  in  the  church-yard  the  bit  of  rose- 
mary that  he  had  sent  her  to  keep,  putting  it  away  from  her 
with  the  chance  of  its  summoning  an  unknown  lover  ?  So  now, 
she  said  to  herself,  she  would  presently  come  out  again  to  the 
poor  affrighted  Prudence,  and  would  re-assure  her,  and  con- 
gratulate hei*,  moreover,  with  words  of  good  cheer  and  com- 
fort for  the  future. 

And  then  again,  in  this  lightning-like  survey  of  the  situa- 
tion, she  was  conscious  that  she  was  becomingly  dressed — and 
right  glad  indeed  that  she  had  chanced  to  put  on  the  gray  vel- 
vet cap  with  the  brass  beads  and  the  curling  feather ;  and  she 
knew  that  the  young  gentleman  would  be  courteous  and  civil, 
with  admiring  eyes.  Moreover,  she  had  a  vague  impression 
that  he  was  somewhat  too  much  given  to  speak  of  Ben  Jonson ; 
and  she  hoped  for  some  opportunity  to  let  him  understand  tha<t 
her  father  was  one  of  good  estate,  and  much  thought  of  by 


A  HERALD  MERCURY.  129 

every  one  around,  whose  daughter  knew  what  was  due  to  his 
position,  and  could  conduct  herself  not  at  all  as  a  country- 
wench.  And  so  it  was  that  the  next  minute  found  her  in  the 
twilight  of  the  room ;  and  there,  truly  enough,  he  was,  standing 
at  the  small  window. 

"  Give  ye  good  welcome,  sir,"  said  she. 

"What !  fair  Mistress  Judith  ?"  he  said,  as  he  quickly  turned 
round.  And  he  would  have  come  forward  and  kissed  her 
hand,  perchance,  but  that  a  moment's  hesitation  prevented  him. 

"It  may  be  that  I  have  offended  you," said  he,  diffidently, 

"In  what,  good  sir ?" 

She  was  quite  at  her  ease ;  the  little  touch  of  modest  color  in 
her  face  could  scarcely  be  attributed  to  rustic  shyness ;  it  was 
but  natural;  and  it  added  to  the  gentleness  of  her  look. 

"Nay,  then,  sweet  lady,  'twas  but  a  lack  of  courage  that  I 
would  ask  you  to  pardon,"  said  he — though  he  did  not  seem 
conscious  of  heavy  guilt,  to  judge  by  the  way  in  which  his 
black  and  eloquent  eyes  regarded  Judith's  face  and  the  prctti- 
ncsscs  of  her  costume.  "There  was  a  promise  that  I  should 
communicate  with  you  if  I  returned  to  this  part  of  the  country ; 
but  I  found  myself  not  bold  enough  to  take  advantage  of  your 
kindness.  However,  fortune  has  been  my  friend,  since  again 
I  meet  you ;  'tis  the  luckiest  chance ;  *  I  but  asked  your  good 
grandmother  here  for  a  cup  of  water  as  I  passed,  and  she 
would  have  me  take  a  cup  of  milk  instead ;  and  then  she  bade 
me  to  come  in  out  of  the  heat  for  a  space — which  I  was  no- 
thing loath  to  do,  as  you  may  guess;  and  here  have  I  been 
taking  up  the  good  lady's  time  with  I  know  not  what  of  idle 
gossip — " 

"But  sit  ye  down,  grandchild," the  good  dame  said;  "and 
you,  sir,  pray  sit  you  down.  Hei'e,  wench,"  she  called  to  the 
little  maid  that  was  her  sole  domestic;  "go  fill  this  jug  from 
the  best  barrel." 

And  then  she  herself  proceeded  to  get  down  from  the  high 
wooden  rail  some  of  the  pewter  trenchers  that  shone  there  like 
a  row  of  white  moons  in  the  dusk ;  and  these  she  placed  on 
the  table,  with  one  or  two  knives;  and  then  she  began  to  get 
forth  cakes,  a  cheese,  a  ham,  some  spiced  bread,  the  half  of  a 
cold  gooseberry-tart,  and  what  not. 

'"Tis  not  every  day  we  come  by  a  visitor  in  these  quiet 


130  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

parts, "said  she — "ay,  good  sir,  and  one  that  is  not  afraid  to 
speak  out  his  mind.  Nay,  nay,  grandchild,  I  tell  thee  sit 
thee  down ;  thou  ai*t  too  fine  a  madam  this  morning  to  meddle 
wi'  kitchen  matters.  Tell  the  gentleman  I  be  rather  deaf ;  but 
I  thank  him  for  his  good  company.  Sit  ye  down,  sweeting ; 
sooth,  you  look  bravely  this  morning." 

' '  Have  I  pleased  you  at  last,  grandmother  ? — 'tis  a  miracle, 
surely,"  she  said,  with  a  smile;  and  then  she  turned  gravely 
to  entertain  the  old  dame's  visitor.  ' '  I  hope  your  fortunes 
have  mended,  sir,"  said  she. 

"In  a  measure — somewhat;  but  still  I  am  forced  to  take 
heed—" 

' '  Perchance  you  have  still  the  letter  to  my  father  ?"  she  asked. 

"Nay,  madam,  I  considered  it  a  prudent  thing  to  destroy 
it — little  as  that  was  in  my  heart." 

' '  I  had  thought  on  your  next  coming  to  the  neighborhood 
that  you  would  have  taken  the  chance  to  make  my  father's 
friendship,"  said  she,  and  not  without  some  secret  disappoint- 
ment; for  she  was  anxious  that  this  acquaintance  of  Ben  Jon- 
son's  should  see  the  New  Place,  with  all  its  tapestries,  and 
carved  wood,  and  silver-gilt  bowls ;  with  its  large  fair  garden, 
too,  and  substantial  barns  and  stables.     Perhaps  she  would 
have  had  him  carry  the  tale  to  London  ?     Tliere  were  some 
things  (she  considered)  quite  as  fine  as  the  trumpery  masques 
and  mummeries  of  the  court  that  the  London  people  seemed  to 
talk  about.     She  would  have  liked  him  to  see  her  father  at  the 
head  of  his  own  table,  with  her  mother's  napery  shining,  and 
plenty  of  good  friends  round  the  board,  and  her  father  drink- 
ing to  the  health  of  Bess  Hall  out  of  the  silver-topped  tankard 
that  Thomas  Combe,  and  Russell,  and  Sadler,  and  Julius  Shawe, 
and  the  rest  of  them,  had  given  him  on  his  last  birthday.     Or 
perchance  she  would  have  had  him  see  her  father  riding  through 
the  town  of  Stratford  with  some  of  these  good  neighbors  (and 
who  the  handsomest  of  all  the  company  ?  she  would  make  bold 
to  ask),  with  this  one  and  that  praising  the  Evesham  roan, 
and  tlie  wagoners  as  they  passed  touching  their  caps  to  ' '  worthy 
Mahster  Shacksper."     Ben  Jonson !     Well,  she  had  seen  Ben 
Jonson.     There  was  not  a  maid  in  tlie  town  would  have  look- 
ed his  way.     Whereas,  if  there  were  any  secret  enchantments 
going  forward  on  Hallowmas-eve  (and  she  knew  of  such,  if 


A  HERALD  MERCURY.  131 

the  ministers  did  not),  and  if  the  young  damsels  were  called 
on  to  form  a  shape  in  their  brain  as  they  prayed  for  the 
handsome  lover  that  was  to  be  sent  them  in  the  future,  she 
was  well  aware  what  type  of  man  they  would  choose  from 
amongst  those  familiar  to  them;  and  also  it  had  more  than 
once  reached  her  ears  that  the  young  fellows  would  jokingly 
say  among  themselves  that  right  well  it  was  that  Master 
Shakespeare  was  married  and  in  safe-keeping,  else  they  would 
never  have  a  chance.  In  the  mean  while,  and  with  much 
courtesy,  this  young  gentleman  was  endeavoring  to  explain  to 
her  why  it  was  he  dared  not  go  near  Stratford  town. 

"Truly,  sweet  Misti'ess  Judith,"  said  he,  in  his  suave  voice, 
and  with  modestly  downcast  eyes,  "it  is  a  disappointment  to 
me  in  more  regards  than  one ;  perchance  I  dare  not  say  how 
much.  But  in  these  times  one  has  to  see  that  one's  own  mis- 
fortunes may  not  prove  harmful  to  one's  friends;  and  then 
again,  ever  since  the  French  King's  mui'der,  they  are  becoming 
harder  and  liarder  against  any  one,  however  innocent  he  may 
be,  that  is  under  suspicion.  And  whom  do  they  not  suspect  ? 
The  Parliament  have  entreated  the  King  to  be  more  careful  of 
his  safety;  and  the  recusants — as  they  call  those  that  have 
some  regard  for  the  faith  they  were  brought  up  in — must  not 
appear  within  ten  miles  of  the  court.  Nay,  they  are  ordered 
to  betake  tliemselves  to  their  own  dwellings ;  and  by  the  last 
proclamation  all  Roman  priests,  Jesuits,  and  seminaries  are 
banished  the  kingdom.  I  wonder  not  your  good  grandmother 
should  have  a  word  of  pity  for  them  that  are  harried  this  way 
and  that  for  conscience'  sake." 

"I  say  naught,  I  say  naught;  'twere  well  to  keep  a  still 
tongue,"  the  old  dame  said,  being  still  busy  with  the  table. 
* '  But  I  have  heard  there  wur  more  peace  and  quiet  in  former 
days  when  there  wur  but  one  faith  in  the  land;  ay,  and  good 
tending  of  tlie  poor  folk  by  the  monks  and  the  rich  houses." 

However,  the  chance  refei'cnce  to  the  French  King  had 
suddenly  recalled  to  Judith  that  Prudence  was  waiting  her  in 
the  garden;  and  her  conscience  smote  her  for  her  neglect; 
while  she  was  determined  that  so  favorable  an  opportunity 
should  not  be  lost  of  banishing  once  and  forever  her  dear  gos- 
sip's cruel  suspicions.     So  she  rose. 

"I  crave  your  pardon,  good  sir,"  said  she,  "  if  I  leave  you  for 


132  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

a  moment  to  seek  my  gossip  Prudence  Shawe,  tliat  was  to  wait 
for  me  in  the  garden.  I  would  hav^e  you  acquainted  with  each 
other;  but  pray  you,  sir,  forbear  to  say  anything  against  the 
Puritan  section  of  the  church,  for  she  is  well  inclined  that  way, 
and  she  has  a  heart  that  is  easily  wounded." 

"And  thank  you  for  the  caution,  fair  Mistress  Judith,"  said 
he ;  and  he  rose,  and  bowed  low,  and  stood  hat  in  hand  until 
she  had  left  the  apartment. 

At  first,  so  blinding  was  the  glare  of  light  and  color,  she 
could  hardly  see;  but  presently,  when  her  eyes  were  less  daz- 
zled, she  looked  everywhere,  and  found  the  garden  quite  emp- 
ty. She  called ;  there  was  no  answer.  She  went  down  to  the 
little  gate ;  there  was  no  one  in  the  road.  And  so,  taking  it 
for  granted  that  Prudence  had  sought  safety  in  flight,  and  was 
now  back  in  Stratford  town,  or  on  the  way  thither,  she  return- 
ed into  the  cottage  with  a  light  heart,  and  well  content  to  hear 
what  news  wr.s  abroad. 

"  Pray  you,  sir, "said  old  Mistress  Hathaway,  "sit  in  to  the 
table;  and  you,  grandchild,  come  your  ways.  If  the  fare  be 
poor,  the  welcome  is  hearty.  What,  then,  Judith?  Dined  al- 
ready, sayst  thou?  Body  o'  me,  a  fresh-colored  young  wench 
like  you  should  be  ready  for  your  dinner  at  any  time.  Well, 
well,  sit  thee  in,  and  grace  the  table ;  and  you  shall  sip  a  cup 
of  claret  for  the  sake  of  good  company. " 

Master  Leofric  Hope,  on  the  other  hand,  was  not  at  all  back- 
ward in  applying  himself  to  this  extemporized  meal ;  on  the 
contrary,  he  did  it  such  justice  as  fairly  warmed  the  old  dame's 
heart.  And  he  drank  to  her,  moreover,  bending  low  over  his 
cup  of  ale ;  but  he  did  not  do  the  like  by  Judith — for  some  rea- 
son or  another.  And  all  the  while  he  was  telling  them  of  the 
affairs  of  the  town;  as  to  how  there  was  much  talking  of  the 
new  river  that  was  to  bring  water  from  some  ten  or  twelve 
miles  off,  and  how  one  Middleton  was  far  advanced  with  the 
cutting  of  it,  although  many  were  against  it,  and  would  have 
the  i^roject  overthrown  altogether.  Of  these  and  similar  mat- 
ters he  spoke  right  pleasantly,  and  the  old  dame  was  greatly 
interested ;  but  Judith  grew  to  think  it  strange  that  so  much 
should  be  said  about  public  affairs,  and  what  the  people  were 
talking  about,  and  yet  no  mention  made  of  her  father.  And 
so  it  came  about,  when  he  went  on  to  tell  them  of  the  new  ship 


A   HERALD  MERCURY.  133 

of  war  that  so  many  were  going  to  see  at  Woolwich,  and  that 
the  King  made  so  much  of,  she  said: 

"  Oh,  my  father  knows  all  about  that  ship.  'Twas  hut  the 
other  day  I  heard  him  and  Master  Combe  speak  of  it;  and 
of  the  King  too;  and  my  father  said,  'Poor  man,  'tis  a  far 
smaller  ship  than  that  he  will  make  his  last  voyage  in.' " 

"  Said  he  that  of  the  King  ?" 

She  looked  uj)  in  quick  alarm. 

"But  as  he  would  have  said  it  of  me,  or  of  you,  or  of  any 
one,"  she  exclaimed.  "Nay,  my  father  is  well  inclined  toward 
the  King,  though  he  be  not  as  much  at  the  court  as  some,  nor 
caring  to  make  pageants  for  the  court  ladies  and  their  attend- 
ants and  followers." 

If  there  were  any  sarcasm  in  this  speech,  he  did  not  perceive 
it ;  for  it  merely  led  him  on  to  speak  of  the  new  masque  that 
Ben  Jonson  was  preparing  for  the  Prince  Henry ;  and  incident- 
ally he  mentioned  that  the  subject  was  to  be  Oberon,  the  Fairy 
Prince. 

"  Oberon  ?"  said  Juditli,  opening  her  eyes.  "  Why,  my  fa- 
ther hath  writ  about  tliat !" 

"Oh  yes,  as  we  all  know,"  said  he,  courteously;  "but  there 
will  be  a  difference — " 

"A  difference?"  said  she.  "By  my  life,  yes!  Tbere  will 
be  a  difference.  I  wonder  that  Master  Jonson  was  not  better 
advised." 

"Nay,  in  this  matter,  good  Mistress  Judith,"  said  he,  "there 
will  be  no  comparison.  I  know  'tis  the  fashion  to  compare 
them—" 

"To  compare  my  father  and  Master  Jonson  ?"  she  said,  as  if 
she  had  not  heard  aright.  ' '  Why,  what  comparison  ?  In 
what  way  ?  Pray  you  remember,  sir,  I  have  seen  Master  Ben 
Jonson.  I  have  seen  him,  and  spoken  with  him.  And  as  for 
my  father,  I'll  be  bound  there  is  not  his  fellow  for  a  handsome 
presence  and  gracious  manners  in  all  Warwickshire — no,  nor 
in  London  town  neither,  I'll  be  sworn!" 

"I  meant  not  that,  sweet  lady,"  said  he,  with  a  smile;  and 
he  added,  grimly:  "I  grant  you  our  Ben  looks  as  if  he  had 
been  in  the  wars;  he  liatli  had  n  tussle  with  Bacchus  on  many 
a  merry  night,  and  bears  the  soars  of  these  noble  convbats. 
No;  'tis  the  fashion  to  compare  them  as  wits — " 

6 


134  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

"  I'd  as  lief  compare  them  as  men,  good  sir,"  said  she,  with  a 
touch  of  pride ;  ' '  and  I  know  right  well  which  should  have  my 
choice." 

"When  it  is  my  good  fortune,  dear  lady,"  said  the  young 
man,  "  to  have  Master  William  Shakespeare's  daughter  sitting 
before  me,  I  need  no  other  testimony  to  his  grace  and  hearing, 
even  had  I  never  set  eyes  on  him."  And  with  that  he  bowed 
low ;  and  there  was  a  slight  flush  on  her  face  that  was  none  of 
displeasure ;  while  the  old  dame  said : 

"  Ay,  ay,  there  be  many  a  wench  in  Warwickshire  worse  fa- 
vored than  she.  Pray  Heaven  it  turn  not  her  head!  The 
wench  is  a  good  wench,  but  ill  to  manage ;  and  'twere  no  mar- 
vel if  the  young  men  got  tired  of  waiting." 

To  escape  from  any  further  discussion  of  this  subject,  Judith 
proposed  that  they  should  go  out  and  look  at  her  grandmother's 
roses  and  pansies,  which  was  in  truth  the  object  of  her  visit ; 
and  she  added  that  if  Master  Hope  (this  was  the  first  time  she 
had  named  him  by  his  name)  were  still  desirous  of  avoiding  ob- 
servation, they  could  go  to  the  little  bower  at  the  upper  hedge- 
row, which  was  sufficiently  screened  from  the  view  of  any 
passer-by.  The  old  dame  was  right  willing,  for  she  was  ex- 
ceedingly proud  of  this  garden,  that  had  no  other  tending  than 
her  own ;  and  so  she  got  her  knitting-needles  and  ball  of  wool, 
and  preceded  them  out  into  the  warm  air  and  the  sunlight. 

"Dear,  dear  me,"  said  she,  stopping  to  regard  two  small 
shrubs  that  stood  withered  and  brown  by  the  side  of  the  path. 
"There  be  something  strange  in  that  rosemary,  now;  in  good 
Booth  there  be.  Try  as  I  may,  I  can  not  bring  them  along;  the 
spring  frost  makes  sure  to  kill  them."  And  then  she  went  on 
again. 

"Strange  indeed,"  said  the  young  man  to  his  companion, 
these  two  being  somewhat  behind,  ' '  that  a  plant  that  is  so 
fickle  and  difficult  to  hold  should  be  the  emblem  of  constancy." 

"I  know  not  what  they  do  elsewhere,"  said  Judith,  careless- 
ly pulling  a  withered  leaf  or  two  to  see  if  they  were  quite  in- 
odorous, "but  hereabouts  they  often  use  a  bit  of  rosemary  for 
a  charm,  and  the  summoning  of  spirits." 

He  started  somewhat,  and  glanced  at  her  quickly  and  curi- 
ously. But  there  was  clearly  no  subtle  intention  in  the  speech. 
She  idly  threw  away  the  leaves. 


A  HERALD  MERCURY.  135 

"  Have  you  faith  in  such  charms,  Mistress  Judith  ?"  said  he, 
still  regarding  her. 

"In  truth  I  know  not,"  she  answered,  as  if  the  question 
were  of  but  little  moment.  "There  be  some  who  believe  in 
them,  and  others  that  laugh.  But  strange  stories  are  told; 
many,  there  be  some  of  them  that  are  not  pleasant  to  hear  of 
a  winter's  night,  when  one  has  to  change  the  warm  chimney- 
comer  for  the  cold  room  above.  There  is  my  grandmotlier,  she 
hath  a  rare  store  of  them ;  but  they  fit  not  well  with  the  sum- 
mer-time and  with  such  a  show  as  this." 

"A  goodly  show  indeed,"  said  he;  and  by  this  time  they 
were  come  to  a  small  arbor  of  rude  lattice-AVork  mostly  smoth- 
ered in  foliage ;  and  there  was  a  seat  within  it,  and  also  a  tiny 
table ;  while  in  front  they  were  screened  from  the  gaze  of  any 
one  going  along  the  road  by  a  straggling  and  propped-uj^  wall 
of  peas  that  were  now  showing  their  large  white  blossoms 
plentifully  among  the  green. 

"  'Tis  a  quiet  spot,"  said  he,  when  they  were  seated,  and  the 
old  dame  had  taken  to  her  knitting;  "  'tis  enough  to  make  one 
pray  never  to  hear  more  of  the  din  and  tui'moil  of  London." 

"I  should  have  thought,  sir,"  said  Judith,  "you  would  have 
feared  to  go  near  London,  if  there  be  those  that  would  fain  get 
to  know  of  your  whereabout." 

"  Truly,"  said  he,  "I  liave  no  choice.  I  must  run  the  risk. 
From  time  to  time  I  must  seek  to  see  whether  tlie  cloud  that  is 
hanging  over  me  give  signs  of  breaking.  And  surely  such 
must  now  be  the  case,  when  fortune  hath  been  so  kind  to  me  as 
to  place  me  where  I  am  at  this  moment — in  such  company — 
with  such  a  quiet  around.  'Tis  like  the  work  of  a  magician; 
though  from  time  to  time  I  remind  mc  that  I  should  rise  and 
leave,  craving  your  pardon  for  intruding  on  you  withal." 

"Trouble  not  yourself,  young  sir,"  the  old  dame  said,  in  her 
matter-of-fact  way,  as  she  looked  up  from  her  knitting;  "if 
the  place  content  you,  'tis  right  well ;  we  be  in  no  such  hurry 
in  these  country  parts ;  we  let  the  day  go  by  as  it  lists,  and 
thank  God  for  a  sound  night's  rest  at  the  end  of  it." 

"And  you  have  a  more  peaceful  and  happy  life  than  the 
London  citizens,  I'll  be  bound,"  said  he,  "  with  all  their  feasts 
and  gayeties  and  the  noi.sc  of  drums  and  the  like." 

"We  hear  but  the  murmur  of  such  things  from  a  far  dis- 


136  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

taiice,"  Judith  said.  "Was  there  not  a  great  to-do  on  the  riv- 
er when  the  citizens  gave  their  welcome  to  the  Prince  ?" 

"Why,  there,  now,"  said  he,  brightening  up  at  this  chance 
of  repaying  in  some  measure  the  courtesy  of  his  entertainers ; 
"  tliere  was  as  wonderful  a  thing  as  London  ever  saw.  A  no- 
ble spectacle,  truly;  for  the  Companies  would  not  be  out- 
done; and  such  bravery  of  apparel,  and  such  a  banqueting  in 
the  afternoon!  And  perchance  you  heard  of  it  but  through 
some  news-letter  !  Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  saw  on  my  own 
part  ?" 

"  If  it  be  not  too  troublesome  to  you,  good  sir." 

He  was  glad  enough ;  for  he  had  noticed,  when  he  was  de- 
scribing such  things,  that  Judith's  eyes  grew  absent,  and  he 
could  gaze  at  them  without  fear  of  causing  her  to  start  and 
blush.  Moreover,  it  was  a  pretty  face  to  tell  a  story  to;  and 
the  day  was  so  still  and  shining;  and  all  around  them  there 
was  a  scent  of  roses  in  the  air. 

"Why,  it  was  about  daybreak,  as  I  should  think,"  he  said, 
"  that  the  citizens  began  to  come  forth ;  and  a  bright  fair  morn- 
ing it  was ;  and  all  of  them  in  their  best  array.  And  you  may 
be  sure  that  when  the  Companies  learned  that  the  whole  of  the 
citizens  were  minded  to  show  their  love  for  the  Prince  Henry 
on  his  coming  back  from  Richmond,  they  were  not  like  to  be 
behindhand  ;  and  such  preparations  had  been  made  as  you 
would  scai-ce  believe.  Well,  then,  so  active  were  they  in  their 
several  ways  that  by  eight  of  the  clock  the  Companies  were 
all  assembled  in  their  barges  of  state  to  wait  the  Lord  Mayor 
and  Aldermen ;  and  such  a  sound  of  drums  and  trumpets  and 
fifes  was  there ;  and  the  water  covered  with  the  fleet,  and  the 
banks  all  crowded  with  them  that  had  come  down  to  see. 
Then  the  Lord  Mayor  and  the  Aldermen  being  arrived,  the 
great  procession  set  forth  in  state;  and  such  a  booming  of 
cannon  there  was,  and  cheering  from  the  crowd.  'Twas  a 
sight,  on  ray  life ;  for  they  bore  the  pageant  witli  them — that 
was  a  huge  whale  and  a  dolphin ;  and  on  the  whale  sat  a  fair 
and  lovely  nymph,  Corinea  she  was  called,  the  Queen  of  Corn- 
wall ;  and  she  had  a  coronet  of  strange  sea-shells,  and  strings 
of  pearls  around  her  neck  and  on  her  wrists ;  and  her  dress  was 
of  crimson  silk,  so  that  all  could  make  her  out  from  a  distance ; 
and  she  had  a  silver  shield  slung  on  to  her  left  arm,  and  in  her 


A  HERALD  MERCURY.  137 

right  hand  a  silver  spear — oh,  a  woBderful  sight  she  was;  I 
marvel  not  the  crowd  cheered  and  cheered  again.  Then  on 
the  other  animal — that  is,  the  dolphin — sat  one  that  represent- 
ed Amphion — he  was  the  father  of  music,  as  you  must  know ; 
and  a  long  beard  he  wore,  and  he  also  had  a  wreath  of  sea- 
shells  on  his  head,  and  in  his  hand  a  harp  of  gold  that  shone 
in  the  sun.  Well,  away  they  set  toward  Chelsea;  and  there 
they  waited  for  the  Prince's  approach — " 

"And  the  young  Prince  himself,"  Judith  said,  quickly  and 
eagerly ;  "  he  bears  himself  well,  does  he  not  ?  He  bears  him- 
self like  a  prince  ?  He  would  match  such  a  pageant  right  roy- 
ally, is't  not  so  ?" 

"Why,  he  is  the  very  model  and  mirror  of  princehood!  — 
the  pink  of  chivalry ! — nor  is  there  one  of  them  at  the  court 
that  can  match  him  at  the  knightly  exercises,"  said  <this  en- 
thusiastic chronicler,  who  had  his  reward  in  seeing  how  inter- 
ested she  was.  "Well,  when  the  young  Prince  was  come  to 
Chelsea,  there  he  paused;  and  the  Queen  Corinea  addressed 
him  in  a  speech  of  welcome — truly,  I  could  not  hear  a  word  of 
it,  there  was  such  a  noise  among  the  multitude ;  but  I  was  told 
thereafter  that  it  presented  him  with  their  love  and  loyal  duty; 
and  then  they  all  set  forth  toward  Whitehall  again.  By  this 
time  'twas  later  in  the  day;  and  no  man  would  have  believed 
so  many  dwelt  in  tlie  neighborhood  of  our  great  river;  and  that 
again  was  as  naught  to  the  crowd  assembled  when  they  were 
come  again  to  the  town.  And  here — as  it  must  have  been  ar- 
ranged beforehand,  doubtless — the  fleet  of  barges  separated, 
and  formed  two  long  lines,  so  as  to  make  a  lane  for  the  Prince 
to  pass  tlirough,  with  great  cheering  and  shouting,  so  that 
when  they  were  come  to  the  court  steps,  he  was  at  the  head  of 
them  all.  And  now  it  was  that  the  dolphin  approached,  and 
Amphion,  that  was  riding  on  his  back,  bid  the  Prince  a  loyal 
farewell  in  the  name  of  all  the  citizens ;  aroi  at  the  end  of  the 
speech — which,  in  truth,  the  people  guessed  at  rather  than 
heard — there  was  such  a  tumult  of  huzzas,  and  a  firing  of  can- 
non, and  the  drums  and  the  trumpets  sounding,  and  on  every 
hand  you  could  hear  nothing  but  '  Long  live  our  Prince  of 
Wales,  the  Royal  Henry !'  " 

"And  he  bore  himself  bravely,  I'll  dare  be  sworn!"  she  ex- 
claimed.    ' '  I  have  heard  my  father  speak  of  him ;  he  is  one 


138  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

that  will  uphold  the  honor  of  England  when  he  comes  to  the 
throne!" 

"And  there  was  such  a  feasting  and  rejoicing  that  evening," 
he  continued,  ' '  within-doors  and  without ;  and  many  an  hon- 
est man,  I  fear  me,  transgressed,  and  laid  the  train  for  a  sore- 
distracted  head  next  day.  Then  'twas  some  two  or  three  even- 
ings after  that,  if  I  remember  aright,  that  we  had  the  great  wa- 
ter-fight and  the  fire-works ;  but  perchance  you  heard  of  these, 
sweet  Mistress  Judith  ?" 

"In  truth,  good  sir,"  she  answered,  "I  heard  of  these,  as  of 
the  welcome  you  speak  of,  but  in  so  scant  a  way  as  to  be  worth 
naught.  'Tis  not  a  kind  of  talking  that  is  encouraged  at  our 
house ;  unless,  indeed,  when  Julius  Shawe  and  Master  Combe 
and  some  of  them  come  in  of  an  evening  to  chat  with  my  fa- 
ther; a^d  then  sometimes  I  contrive  to  linger,  with  the  bring- 
ing in  of  a  fl^agon  of  Rhenish  or  the  like,  unless  I  am  chid  and 
sent  forth.  I  pray  you,  good  sir,  if  I  do  not  outwear  your 
patience,  to  tell  us  of  the  water-fight,  too." 

"'Tis  I  that  am  more  like  to  outwear  your  patience,  fair 
Judith,"  said  he.      "I  would  I  had  a  hundred  fights  to  tell  you 
of.     But  this  one — well,  'twas  a  goodly  pageant ;  and  a  vast 
crowd  was  come  down  to  the  water's  edge  to  see  what  was  go- 
ing forward,  for  most  of  the  business  of  the  day  was  over, 
and  both  master  and  'pi*entice  were  free.     And  very  soon  we 
saw  how  the  story  was  going;  for  there  was  a  Turkish  pirate, 
with  fierce  men  with  blackened  faces;  and  they  would  plunder 
two  English  merchantmen  and  make  slaves  of  the  crews.     This 
was  but  the  beginning  of  the  fight;  and  there  was  great  firing 
of  guns  and  manoeuvring  of  the  vessels;  and  the  mei-chantmen 
were  like  to  fare  badly,  not  being  trained  to  arms  like  the 
pirate.     In  sooth  they  were  sore   bestead;  but  presently  up 
came  two  ships  of  war  to  rescue ;  and  then  the  coil  began  in 
good  earnest,  I  wa^-rant  you;  for  there  was  boarding  and  char- 
ging and  clambering  over  the  bulwai'ks — ay,  and  many  a  man 
on  both  sides  knocked  into  the  sea ;  until  in  the  end  they  had 
killed  or  secured  all  the  pirates,  and  then  there  was  naught 
to  do  but  to  blow  up  the  pirate  shixj  into  the  air,  with  a  noise 
like  thunder,  and  scarce  a  rag  or   spar  of  him   remaining. 
'Twas  a  right  good  ending,  I  take  it,  in  the  minds  of  the  worthy 
citizens ;  doubtless  they  hoped  that  every  Turkish  rogue  would 


^^'^^M 


F. 


o 


5 


3 
58 


( 


A  HERALD  MERCURY.  141 

be  served  the  like.  And  then  it  was  that  the  blowing'  up  of 
the  pirate  ship  was  a  kind  of  signal  for  the  beginning  of  the 
fire- works ;  and  it  had  grown  to  dusk  now ;  so  that  tlie  blazes 
of  red  light  and  blue  light  and  the  whizzing  of  the  squibs  and 
•what  not  seemed  to  fill  all  the  air.  'Twas  a  I'are  climax  to  the 
destruction  of  the  Turks;  and  the  people  cheei'ed  and  cheered 
again  when  'twas  well  done ;  and  then  at  the  end  came  a  great 
discharge  of  guns  and  squibs  and  showers  of  stars,  that  one 
would  have  thought  the  whole  world  was  on  fire.  Sure  I  am 
that  the  waters  of  the  Thames  never  saw  such  a  sight  before. 
And  the  people  went  home  right  well  content,  and  I  doubt  not 
drank  to  the  confusion  of  all  pirates,  as  well  as  to  the  health 
of  the  young  Prince,  that  is  to  preserve  the  realm  to  us  in  years 
to  come." 

They  talked  for  some  time  thereafter  about  that  and  other 
matters,  and  about  his  own  condition  and  occupations  at  the 
farm  ;  and  ihea  he  rose,  and  there  was  a  smile  on  his  face. 

"You  know,  fair  Mistress  Judith,"  said  he,  "that  a  wise  man 
is  careful  not  to  outstay  his  welcome,  lest  it  be  not  offered  to 
him  again ;  and  your  good  grandmother  has  afforded  me  so 
pleasant  an  hour's  gossip  and  good  company  that  I  Avould  fain 
look  forward  to  some  other  chance  of  the  same  in  the  fu- 
ture." 

"Must  you  g'o,  good  sir ?"  said  Judith,  also  rising.  "I  trust 
we  have  not  overtaxed  your  patience.  We  country  folk  are 
hungry  listeners." 

"To  have  been  awarded  so  much  of  your  time,  sweet  Mistress 
Judith,"  said  he,  bowing  very  low,  "is  an  honor  I  am  not 
likely  to  forget." 

And  then  he  addressed  the  old  dame,  who  had  missed  some- 
thing of  this. 

' '  Give  ye  good  thanks  for  your  kindness,  good  Mistress  Hath- 
away," said  he. 

"Good  fortune  attend  ye,  sir,"  said  the  old  dame,  contented- 
ly, and  without  ceasing  from  her  knitting. 

Judith  was  standing  there,  with  lier  eyes  cast  down. 

"Sweet  lady,  by  your  leave,"  said  he,  and  lie  took  her  hand 
and  raised  it  and  just  touched  her  fingers  with  his  lips.  Then 
he  bowed  low  again,  and  withdrew. 

"Fare  you  well,  good  sir,"  Judith  had  said  at  the  same  mo- 


142  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

ment,  but  without  any  word  as  to  a  future  meeting.  Then  she 
returned  into  the  little  arbor  and  sat  down. 

"  Is't  not  like  a  meteor,  g-randmother,  shooting  across  the 
sky  ?"  said  she,  merrily.  ' '  Beshrew  me,  but  the  day  has  grown 
dark  since  he  left !  Didst  ever  hear  of  such  a  gallymawfrey  of 
dolphins  and  whales,  and  prince's  barges,  and  the  roaring  of 
cannon,  and  fire- works  ?  Sure  'tis  well  we  live  in  the  country 
quiet,  our  ears  would  be  riven  in  twain  else.  And  you,  grand- 
mother, that  was  ever  preaching  about  prudent  behavior,  to  be 
harboring  one  that  may  be  an  outlaw — a  recusant ;  perchance 
he  hath  drawn  his  SAVord  in  the  King's  presence — " 

"What  know  you  of  the  young  gentleman,  Judith  ?"  the 
old  dame  said,  sharply. 

"Marry,  not  a  jot  beyond  what  he  hath  doubtless  told  to 
yourself,  good  grandmother.  But  see  you  any  harm  in  him  ? 
Have  you  suspicion  of  him  ?  Would  you  have  me  think — as 
Prudence  would  fain  believe — that  there  is  witchcraft  about 
him  ?" 

"Truly  I  see  no  harm  in  the  young  gentleman, "the  old 
grandmother  was  constrained  to  say.  "And  he  be  fair-spoken, 
and  modest  withal.  But  look  you  to  this,  wench :  should  you 
chance  to  meet  him  again  while  he  bideth  hei'e  in  this  neigh- 
borhood— I  trow  'twere  better  you  did  not — but  should  that 
chance,  see  you  keep  a  still  tongue  in  your  head  about  church 
and  King  and  Parliament.  Let  others  meddle  who  choose; 
'tis  none  of  your  affairs :  do  you  hear  me,  child  ?  These  be 
parlous  times,  as  the  talk  is;  they  do  well  that  keep  the  by- 
ways, and  let  my  lord's  coaches  go  whither  they  list." 

"Grandmother,"  said  Judith,  gravely,  "I  know  there  be 
many  things  in  whiph  I  can  not  please  you,  but  this  sin  that 
you  would  lay  to  my  charge — nay,  dear  grandara,  when  have 
you  caught  me  talking  about  church  and  King  and  Parliament  ? 
Truly  I  wish  them  well ;  but  I  am  content  if  they  go  their  own 
way." 

The  old  dame  glanced  at  her,  to  see  what  this  demure  tone 
of  speech  meant. 

' '  Thou  ?"  she  said,  in  a  sort  of  gi'umble.  * '  Thy  brain  be  fill- 
ed with  other  gear,  I  reckon.  'Tis  a  bit  of  ribbon  that  hath 
hold  of  thee;  or  the  report  as  to  which  of  the  lads  shot  best  at 
the  match ;  or  perchance  'tis  the  purchase  of  some  penny  bal- 


A  HERALD  MERCURY.  143 

lads,  that  you  may  put  the  pictures  on  your  chamber  wall,  as 
if  you  were  a  farm,  wench  just  come  in  from  the  milking  pail." 

"Heaven  have  pity  on  me,  good  grandmother,"  said  she, 
with  much  penitence,  and  she  looked  down  at  her  costume, 
"but  I  can  find  no  way  of  pleasing  you.  You  scold  me  for 
being  but  a  farm  wench ;  and  truly  this  petticoat,  though  it  be 
pretty  enough,  methinks  might  have  been  made  of  a  costlier 
stuff ;  and  my  cap — good  grandmother,  look  at  my  cap — " 

She  took  it  off,  and  smoothed  the  gray  velvet  of  it,  and  ar- 
ranged the  beads  and  the  feather. 

"  — is  the  cap  also  too  much  of  the  fashion  of  a  farm  wench  ? 
or  have  I  gone  amiss  the  other  way,  and  become  too  like  a  city 
dame  ?     Would  that  I  knew  how  to  please  you,  grandam !" 

"  Go  thy  ways,  child;  get  thee  home!"  the  old  woman  said, 
but  only  half  angrily.  "Thy  foolish  head  hath  been  turned  by 
hearing  of  those  court  gambols.  Get  you  to  your  needle :  be 
your  mother's  napery  all  so  well  mended  that  you  can  spend 
the  whole  day  in  idleness  ?" 

"Nay,  but  you  are  in  the  right  tliere,  good  grandmother," 
said  Judith,  drawing  closer  to  her,  and  taking  her  thin  and 
wrinkled  hand  in  her  own  warm,  white,  soft  ones.  "  But  not 
to  the  needle — not  to  the  needle,  good  grandam ;  I  have  other 
eggs  on  the  spit.  Did  not  I  tell  you  of  the  Portugal  receipts 
that  Prudence  got  for  me? — in  good  soolh  I  did;  well,  the 
dishes  were  made ;  and  next  day  at  dinner  my  father  was  right 
well  pleased.  'Tis  little  heed  he  pays  to  such  matters;  and 
we  scarce  thought  of  asking  him  how  he  liked  the  fare,  when 
all  at  once  he  said:  'Good  mother,  you  must  give  my  thanks 
to  Jane  cook;  'twill  cheer  her  in  her  work;  nay,  I  owe  tliein.' 
Then  says  my  mother:  '  But  tliese  two  dishes  were  not  prepared 
by  the  cook,  good  husband;  'twas  pne  of  the  maids.'  'One 
of  the  maids  ?' he  says.  'Well,  which  one  of  the  maids  ?  Truly, 
'tis  something  rare  to  be  found  in  a  country  house.'  And  then 
there  was  a  laughing  amongst  all  of  them ;  and  he  fixes  his 
eyes  on  me.  '  What  V  he  says,  '  that  saucy  wench  ?  Is  she 
striving  to  win  her  a  husband  at  last  ?'  And  so,  you  see,  good 
grandmother,  I  must  waste  no  more  time  here,  for  Prudence 
hath  one  or  two  more  of  these  receipts;  and  I  must  try  them 
to  see  whether  my  father  approves  or  not." 

And  so  she  kissed  the  old  dame,  and  bade  her  farewell,  ref  us- 

6* 


144  JUDITH  SHAKESPEAEE. 

ing  at  the  same  time  to  haye  the  escort  of  the  small  maid  across 
the  meadows  to  the  town. 

All  the  temporary  annoyance  of  the  morning  was  now 
over  and  forgotten ;  she  was  wholly  pleased  to  have  had  this 
interview,  and  to  have  heard  minutely  of  all  the  great  doings 
in  London.  She  walked  quickly ;  a  careless  gladness  shone  in 
her  face ;  and  slie  was  lightly  singing  to  herself,  as  she  went 
along  the  well-beaten  path  through  the  fields, 

"  SiffJt  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more, 
Men  were  deceivers  ever^ 

But  it  was  not  in  the  nature  of  any  complaint  against  the  in- 
constancy of  man  that  this  rhyme  had  come  into  her  head. 
Quite  other  thoughts  came  as  well.  At  one  moment  she  was 
saying  to  herself : 

"Why,  now,  have  I  no  spaniel-gentle  with  me  to  keep  me 
company  ?" 

And  then  the  next  minute  she  was  saying,  with  a  sort  of 
laugh : 

"  God  help  me,  I  fear  I  am  none  of  the  spaniel-gentle  kind!" 
But  there  was  no  deep  smiting  of  conscience  even  when  she 
confessed  so  much.  Her  face  was  radiant  and  content;  she 
looked  at  the  cattle,  or  the  trees,  or  the  children,  as  it  chanced, 
as  if  she  knew  them  all,  and  knew  tliat  they  were  friendly  to- 
ward her;  and  then  again  the  idle  air  would  come  into  her 
brain : 

"  Then  sigh  not  so,  but  let  them  go. 
And  be  you  blithe  and  bonny, 
Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 
Into  hey,  nonny,  nonny  P'' 


A  TIRE-WOMAIT.  145 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A  TIRE-WOMAN. 

It  was  not  until  after  supper  that  evening  that  Judith  was 
free  to  seek  out  her  companion,  who  had  fled  from  her  in  the 
morning;  and  when  she  did  steal  forth — carrying  a  small  bas- 
ket in  her  hand — she  apjDroached  the  house  with  much  more 
caution  than  was  habitual  with  her.  She  glanced  in  at  the  low- 
er windows,  but  could  see  nothing.  Then,  instead  of  trying 
whether  the  latch  was  left  loose,  she  formally  knocked  at  the 
door. 

It  was  opened  by  a  little  rosy-cheeked  girl  of  eleven  or 
twelve,  who  instantly  bobbed  a  respectful  courtesy. 

"  Is  Mistress  Prudence  within,  little  Margery  ?"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  if  it  please  you,"  said  the  little  wench,  and  she  stood 
aside  to  let  Judith  pass. 

But  Judith  did  not  enter;  she  seemed  listening, 

"  Where  is  she  ?" 

"In  her  own  chamber,  if  it  please  you." 

"Alone,  then?" 

"Yes,  if  it  please  you.  Mistress  Judith." 

Judith  patted  the  little  maid  in  requital  of  her  courtesy,  and 
then  stole  noiselessly  upstairs.  The  door  was  open.  Prudence 
was  standing  before  a  small  table  ironing  a  pair  of  snow-white 
cuffs,  the  while  she  was*  repeating  to  herself  verses  of  a  psalm. 
Her  voice,  low  as  it  was,  could  be  heard  distinctly : 

"  Open  thou  mil  lipa,  0  Lord,  and  1711/ month  ahall  shciv  forth  f hi/  praise. 

For  thou  desirest  no  sacrifice,  though  I  would  give  it;  thou  delightest  not  in 
burnt-offerinff. 

llie  sacrifices  of  Ood  are  a  contrite  spirit;  a  contrite  and  a  broken  heart,  0 
God,  thou  will  not  de.ipi.ie. 

Be  favorable  unto  Zion  for  th]/  good  pleasure ,  build  the  walls  of  Jerusalem. 

Tlien  shall  thou  accept  the  sacrifices  of  righteousness,  even  the  burnt-offering 
and  oblation  ;  then  shall  they  offer  calves  upon  thine  altar.^' 

She  happened  to  turn  her  head;  and  then  she  uttered  a 
slight  cry  of  surprise,  and  came  quickly  to  Judith,  and  caught 
her  bv  the  hand. 


146  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE, 

' '  What  said  he  ?"  she  exclaimed,  almost  breathlessly,  ' '  You 
saw  him  ?  'Twas  the  same,  was  it  not  ?  How  came  he  there  ? 
Judith,  tell  me !" 

"You  timid  mouse  that  ran  away!"  the  other  said,  with  a 
complacent  smile.  "  Wliy,  what  should  he  say  ?  But  prithee 
go  on  with  the  cuffs,  else  the  iron  will  be  cold.  And  are  you 
alone  in  the  house.  Prudence  ?     There  is  no  one  below  ?" 

"  None  but  the  maids,  I  trow;  or  Julius,  perchance,  if  he  be 
come  in  from  the  malt-house." 

"Quick,  then,  with  the  cuffs,"  Judith  said,  "and  get  them 
finished.  Nay,  I  will  tell  thee  all  about  the  young-  gentleman 
thereafter.    Get  thee  finished  with  the  cuffs,  and  put  them  on — " 

"But  I  meant  them  not  for  this  evening,  Judith,"  said  she, 
with  her  eyes  turned  away. 

" 'Tis  this  evening,  and  now,  you  must  w^ear  them,"  her 
friend  said,  peremptorily.  "And  more  than  these.  See,  I 
have  brought  you  some  things,  dear  mouse,  that  you  must  wear 
for  my  sake — nay,  nay,  I  will  take  no  denial — you  must  and 
shall — and  with  haste,  too,  must  you  put  them  on,  lest  any  one 
should  come  and  find  the  mistress  of  the  house  out  of  call.  Is 
not  this  pretty,  good  Prudence  ?" 

She  had  opened  the  basket  and  taken  therefrom  a  plaited 
ruff  that  the  briefest  feminine  glance  showed  to  be  of  the  finest 
cobweb  lawn,  tinged  a  faint  saffron  hue,  and  tied  with  silken 
strings.  Prudence,  who  now  divined  the  object  of  her  visit, 
was  overwhelmed  with  confusion.  The  fair  and  i^ensive  face 
became  rose  red  with  embarrassment,  and  she  did  not  even 
know  how  to  protest. 

"And  this,"  said  Judith,  in  the  most  matter-of-fact  way, 
taking  something  else  out  of  the  basket,  ' '  will  also  become  you 
well — nay,  not  so,  good  mouse,  you  shall  be  as  prim  and  Puri- 
tanical as  you  please  to-morrow,  to-night  you  shall  be  a  little 
braver;  and  is  it  not  handsome, 'too  ? — 'twas  a  gift  to  my  mother 
— and  she  knows  that  I  have  it — tliough  I  have  never  worn  it." 

This  second  article  that  she  held  out  and  stroked  with  her 
fingers  was  a  girdle  of  buff-colored  leather,  embroidered  witla 
flowers  in  silk  of  different  colors,  and  having  a  margin  of  fili- 
gree silver-work  both  above  and  below,  and  a  broad  silver 
clasp. 

"  Come,  then,  let's  try — " 


A  TIRE-WOMAN.  147 

"Nay,  Judith,"  the  other  said,  retreating  a  step;  "I  can  not 
— indeed  I  can  not — " 

' '  Indeed  you  must,  silly  child !"  Judith  said,  and  she  caught 
hold  of  her  angrily.  "  I  say  yon  shall.  What  know  you  of 
such  things  ?     Must  I  teacli  you  manners  ?" 

And  when  Judith  was  in  this  authoritative  mood.  Prudence 
had  but  little  power  to  withstand  her.  Her  face  was  still  burn- 
ing with  embarrassment,  but  she  succumbed  in  silence*  while 
Judith  whipped  oflp  the  plain  linen  collar  tliat  her  friend  wore, 
and  set  on  in  its  stead  this  small  but  handsome  ruff.  She  ar- 
ranged it  carefully,  and  smoothed  Prudence's  soft  fair  hair,  and 
gave  a  finishing  touch  to  the  three-cornered  cap;  then  she 
stepped  back  a  pace  or  two  to  contemplate  her  handiwork. 

"There!"  she  exclaimed  (pretending  to  see  nothing  of  Pru- 
dence's blushes).  "A  princess!  On  my  life,  a  princess!  And 
now  for  the  girdle ;  but  you  must  cast  aside  that  housewife's 
pouch,  sweetheart,  and  I  will  lend  thee  this  little  pomander 
of  mine;  in  truth  'twill  suit  it  well." 

"No,  no,  dear  Judith!"  the  other  said,  almost  piteously. 
"Indeed  I  can  not  prank  me  out  in  these  bon-owed  plumes.  If 
you  will  have  it  so,  I  will  wear  the  I'uff ;  but  not  the  girdle — 
not  the  gix'dle,  dear  cousin ;  that  all  would  see  was  none  of 
mine — " 

"What's  that  ?"  Judith  exclaimed,  suddenly,  for  there  was  a 
noise  below. 

"  'Tis  Julius  come  in  from  the  barn,"  Prudence  said. 

"Mercy  on  us,"  the  other  cried,  with  a  laugh,  "I  thought 
'twas  the  spaniel-gentle  come  already.  So  you  will  not  wear 
the  girdle  ?  Well,  the  ruif  becomes  you  right  fairly :  and — and 
those  roses  in  your  cheeks,  gc^od  Prue — wliy,  what  is  the  matter  ? 
Is  there  aught  wonderful  in  one  of  Julius's  friends  coming  to 
see  him  in  the  evening  ?  And  as  the  misti'ess  of  the  house  you 
must  receive  him  well  and  courteously;  and  be  not  so  demure 
of  speech  and  distant  in  manner,  dearest  heart,  for  youth  must 
have  a  little  merriment,  and  we  can  not  always  be  at  our 
prayers." 

"  I  know  not  what  you  mean,  Judith,  unless  it  be  something 
that  is  far  away  from  any  thought  or  wish  of  mine." 

There  was  a  touch  of  sincerity  in  this  speech  that  instantly 
recalled  Judith  from  her  half-gibing  ways.     The  truth  was  that 


148  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

while  she  herself  was  free  enough  in  confiding  to  this  chosen 
gossip  of  hers  all  about  such  lovers  or  would-be  lovers  as 
happened  to  present  themselves,  Prudence  had  never  volunteer- 
ed any  similar  confidence  in  return;  and  the  very  fact  that 
there  might  be  reasons  for  this  reticence  was  enough  to  keep 
Judith  from  seeking  to  remove  the  veil.  Judith  herself  was 
accustomed  to  make  merry  over  the  whole  matter  of  sweethearts 
and  rhymed  messages  and  little  tender  gifts;  but  Prudence  was 
sensitive,  and  Judith  was  careful  not  to  wound  her  by  indis- 
creet questioning.  And  at  this  moment,  when  Prudence  was 
standing  there  confused  and  abashed,  some  compunction  seized 
the  heart  of  her  friend.     She  took  her  hand. 

"  In  good  sooth,  I  meant  not  to  tease  you,  sweetheart,"  said 
she,  in  a  kindly  way;  "and  if  I  advise  you  in  aught,  'tis  but 
that  you  should  make  your  brother's  house  a  pleasant  resort 
for  them  that  would  be  friendly  with  him  and  visit  him.  What 
harm  can  there  be  in  receiving  such  with  a  cheerful  welcome, 
and  having  a  pretty  house-mistress,  and  all  things  neat  and 
comfortable  ?  Dear  mouse,  you  so  often  lecture  me  that  I 
must  have  my  turn ;  and  I  do  not  find  fault  or  cause  of  quar- 
rel ;  'tis  but  a  wish  that  you  would  be  less  severe  in  your  ways, 
and  let  your  kind  heart  speak  more  freely.  Men,  that  have 
the  burden  of  the  world's  fight  to  bear,  love  to  meet  women- 
folk that  have  a  merry  and  cheerful  countenance ;  'twere  a  mar- 
vel else ;  and  of  an  evening,  when  there  is  idleness  and  some 
solace  after  the  labors  of  the  day,  why  should  one  be  glum, 
and  thinking  ever  of  that  next  world  that  is  coming  soon 
enough  of  its  own  accord  ?  Look  you  how  well  the  ruff  be- 
comes you ;  and  what  sin  is  in  it  ?  The  girdle,  too  ;  think  you 
my  mother  would  have  worn  it  had  there  been  aught  of  evil  in 
a  simple  piece  of  leather  and  embroideiy  ?" 

' '  'Tis  many  a  day  since  she  put  it  aside,  as  I  well  remember," 
Prudence  said,  but  with  a  smile,  for  she  was  easily  won  over. 

"Truly,"  said  Judith,  with  a  touch  of  scorn,  "the  good 
preachers  are  pleased  to  meddle  with  small  matters  when  they 
would  tell  a  woman  what  she  should  wear,  and  order  a  maiden 
to  give  up  a  finger  ring  or  a  bit  of  lace  on  peril  of  her  losing 
her  soul.  These  be  marvellous  small  deer  to  be  so  hunted  and 
stormed  about  with  bell,  book,  and  candle.  But  now,  good 
Prudence,  for  this  one  evening,  I  would  have  you  please  your 


A  TIRE- WOMAN.  149 

visitor  and  entertain  bim ;  and  the  spaniel-gentle— that,  indeed, 
you  must  take  from  him — " 

"I  can  not,  dear  Judith;  'twas  meant  for  you,"  Prudence 
exclaimed. 

"  You  can  not  go  back  from  your  promise,  good  cousin,"  Ju- 
dith said,  coolly,  and  with  some  slight  inattention  to  facts. 
"  'T would  be  unmannerly  of  you  to  refuse  the  gift,  or  to  refuse 
ample  thanks  for  it  either.  And  see  you  have  plenty  on  the 
board,  for  men  like  good  fare  along  with  good  company;  and 
let  there  be  no  stint  of  wine  or  ale  as  they  may  choose,  for 
your  bi'other's  house.  Prudence,  must  not  be  niggard,  were  it 
only  for  appearance'  sake." 

"But  you  will  stay,  dear  Judith,  will  you  not?"  the  other 
said,  anxiously.  ' '  In  truth  you  can  entertain  them  all  wherever 
you  go;  and  always  there  is  such  heart  in  the  company — " 

"Nay,  I  can  not,  sweet  mouse,"  Judith  said,  lightly. 
"  There  is  much  for  me  to  do  now  in  the  evenings  since  Susan 
has  gone  back  to  her  own  home.  Now  I  must  go,  lest  your 
visitor  arrive  and  find  you  unprepared.  You  must  wear  the 
cufPs  as  they  are,  since  I  bave  hindered  you  in  the  ironing." 

"But  you  can  not  go,  Judith,  till  you  have  told  me  what 
happened  to-day  at  the  cottage,"  the  other  pleaded. 

"  What  happened  ?  Why,  nothing,"  Judith  said,  brightly. 
"Only  that  my  grandmother  is  of  a  mind  with  myself  that  a 
fairer-spoken  young  gentleman  seldom  comes  into  these  parts, 
and  that,  when  he  does,  he  should  be  made  welcome.  Bless 
thy  heart,  hadst  thou  but  come  in  and  seen  how  attentive  the 
good  dame  was  to  him!  And  she  would  press  him  to  have 
some  claret  wine ;  but  lie  said  no :  perchance  he  guessed  that 
good  grandam  had  but  small  store  of  that.  Nay,  but  you 
should  have  come  in,  sweet  mouse ;  then  would  you  have  been 
conscience-smitten  about  all  your  dark  surmisings.  A  mur- 
derer, forsooth !  a  ghost !  a  phantom  !  Why,  so  civil  was  his 
manner  that  he  but  asked  for  a  cup  of  water  in  passing,  and 
my  grandmother  must  needs  have  him  come  in  out  of  the  sun, 
and  rest  him,  and  have  some  milk.  AVas  that  like  a  ghost  ? 
I  warrant  you  there  was  naught  of  the  ghost  about  him  when 
she  put  a  solid  repast  before  him  on  the  table :  ghosts  make  no 
such  stout  attacks  on  goossberry  tart  and  cheese,  else  they  be 
sore  belied." 


150  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

"  But  wlio  and  what  is  this  man,  Judith  ?" 

"Why,  who  can  tell  what  any  man  is?"  said  the  other. 
"They  all  of  them  are  puzzles,  and  unlike  other  human  crea- 
tures. But  this  one — well,  he  hath  a  rare  store  of  knowledge 
as  to  what  is  going  forward  at  the  court  —  and  among  the 
players,  too ;  and  as  we  sat  in  the  little  bower  there  you  would 
have  sworn  you  could  see  before  you  the  river  Thames,  with 
a  wonderful  pageant  on  it — dolphins,  and  whales,  and  crowned 
sea-queens,  and  the  like;  and  in  the  midst  of  them  all  the 
young  Prince  Heniy — 'Long  live  the  young  Prince  Henry!' 
they  cried ;  and  thei'e  was  such  a  noise  of  drums  and  cannons 
and  trumpets  that  you  could  scarce  hear  my  grandmother's 
bees  among  the  flowers.  I  warrant  you  the  good  dame  was 
well  repaid  for  her  entertainment,  and  right  well  pleased  with 
the  young  gentleman.  I  should  not  marvel  to  find  him  re- 
turning thither,  seeing  that  he  can  i*emain  there  in  secrecy, 
and  have  such  gossip  as  pleases  him." 

"But,  Judith,  you  know  not  what  you  do!"  her  friend  pro- 
tested, anxiously.  "Do  you  forget — nay,  you  can  not  forget — 
that  this  was  the  very  man  the  wizard  prophesied  that  you 
should  meet ;  and,  more  than  that,  that  he  would  be  your  hus- 
band!" 

"  My  husband  ?"  said  Judith,  with  a  flush  of  color,  and  she 
laughed  uneasily.  ' '  Nay,  not  so,  good  Prudence.  He  is  not 
one  that  is  likely  to  choose  a  country  wench.  Nay,  nay,  the 
juggler  knave  failed  me — that  is  the  truth  of  it;  the  charm  was 
a  thing  of  naught;  and  this  young  gentleman,  if  I  met  him 
by  accident,  the  same  might  have  happened  to  you,  as  I  show- 
ed you  before.  Marry,  I  should  not  much  crave  to  see  him 
again,  if  anything  lilve  that  were  in  the  wind.  This  is  Strat- 
ford town,  'tis  not  the  forest  of  Arden ;  and  in  this  neighbor- 
hood a  maiden  may  not  go  forth  to  seek  her  lover,  and  coax  him 
into  the  wooing  of  her.  My  father  may  put  that  into  a  play, 
but  methinks  if  he  heard  of  his  own  daughter  doing  the  like, 
the  key  would  quickly  be  turned  on  her.  Nay,  nay,  good  Prue, 
you  shall  not  fright  me  out  of  doing  a  civil  kindness  to  a 
stranger,  and  one  that  is  in  misfortune,  by  flaunting  his  lover- 
ship  before  my  eyes.  There  be  no  such  thing :  do  not  I  know 
the  tokens  ?  By  my  life,  this  gentleman  is  too  courteous  to 
have  a  lover's  mind  within  him  !" 


A  TIRE-WOMAN.  151 

"And  you  will  go  and  see  him  again,  Judith?"  her  friend 
asked,  quickly. 

"Nay,  I  said  not  that,"  Judith  answered,  complacently. 
"  'Tis  not  the  forest  of  Arden ;  would  to  Heaven  it  were,  for  life 
would  move  to  a  pleasanter  music  1  I  said  not  that  I  would 
go  forth  and  seek  him;  that  were  not  maidenly;  and  belike 
there  would  come  a  coil  of  talking  among  the  gossips  or  soon 
or  late ;  but  at  this  time  of  the  year,  do  you  see,  sweet  cousin, 
the  couutry  is  fair  to  look  upon,  and  the  air  is  sweeter  in  the 
meadows  than  it  is  here  in  the  town;  and  if  a  lone  damsel, 
forsaken  by  all  else,  should  be  straying  silent  and  forlorn  along 
the  pathway  or  by  the  river-side,  and  should  encounter  one 
that  hath  but  lately  made  her  acquaintance,  why  should  not 
that  acquaintance  be  pei'mitted  in  all  modesty  and  courtesy  to 
ripen  into  friendship  ?  The  harm,  good  Prue — the  harm  of  it  ? 
Tush !  your  head  is  filled  with  childish  fears  of  the  wizard ;  that 
is  the  truth ;  and  had  you  but  come  into  the  house  to-day,  and 
had  but  five  minutes'  speech  of  the  young  gentleman,  you 
would  have  been  as  ready  as  any  one  to  help  in  the  beguile- 
meit  of  the  tedium  of  his  hiding,  if  that  be  possible  to  two  or 
three  silly  women.  And  bethink  you,  was't  not  a  happy  chance 
that  I  wore  my  new  velvet  cap  this  moi'ning  ?" 

But  she  had  been  speaking  too  eagerly.  This  was  a  slip ;  and 
instantly  she  added,  with  some  touch  of  confusion, 

"  I  mean  that  I  would  fain  have  my  father's  friends  in  Lon- 
don know  that  his  family  are  not  so  far  out  of  the  world,  or 
out  of  the  fashion." 

"  Is  he  one  of  your  father's  friends,  Judith  ?"  Prudence  said, 
gravely. 

"He  is  a  friend  of  my  father's  friends,  at  least,"  said  she, 
"and  some  day,  I  doubt  not,  he  will  himself  be  one  of  these. 
Truly  that  will  be  a  rare  sight,  some  evening  at  New  Place, 
when  we  confront  you  with  him,  and  tell  him  how  he  was 
charged  with  being  a  ghost,  or  a  pirate,  or  an  assassin,  or  some- 
thing of  the  like." 

"Your  fancy  runs  free,  Judith,"  her  friend  said.  "  Is't  a 
probable  thing,  think  you,  that  one  that  dares  not  come  forth 
into  the  day,  that  is  hiding  from  justice,  or  perchance  schem- 
ing in  Catholic  plots,  should  become  the  friend  of  your  house  ?" 

"  You  saw  him  not  at  my  grandmothers  board,  good  Prue," 


152  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

said  Judith,  coolly.  "The  young  gentleman  hath  the  trick  of 
making  himself  at  home  wherever  he  cometh,  I  warrant  you. 
And  when  this  cloud  blows  away,  and  he  is  fi*ee  to  come  to 
Stratford,  there  is  none  will  welcome  him  more  heartily  than 
I,  for  methinks  he  holdeth  Master  Benjamin  Jonson  in  too  high 
consideration,  and  I  would  have  him  see  what  is  thought  of  my 
father  in  the  town,  and  Avliat  his  estate  is,  and  that  his  family, 
though  they  live  not  in  London,  are  not  wholly  of  Moll  the 
milkmaid  kind.  And  I  would  have  Susan  come  over  too ;  and 
were  she  to  forget  her  preachers  and  her  psalms  for  but  an 
evening,  and  were  there  any  merriment  going  forward,  the 
young  gentleman  would  have  to  keep  his  wits  clear,  I'll  be 
bound.  There  is  the  house,  too,  I  would  have  him  see ;  and 
the  silver-topped  tankard  with  the  writing  on  it  from  my  fa- 
ther's good  friends;  nay,  I  warrant  me  Julius  would  not  think 
of  denying  me  the  loan  of  the  King's  letter  to  my  father — 
were  it  but  for  an  hour  or  two — ■" 

But  here  they  were  startled  into  silence  by  a  knocking  below ; 
then  there  was  the  sound  of  a  man's  voice  in  the  narrow  pas- 
sage. 

'"Tis  he,  sweetheart,"  Judith  said,  quickly,  and  she  kissed 
her  friend,  and  gave  a  final  touch  to  the  ruff  and  the  cap. 
"Get  you  down  and  welcome  him;  I  will  go  out  when  that 
you  have  shut  the  door  of  the  room.  And  be  merry,  good 
heart,  be  merry — be  brave  and  merry,  as  you  love  me." 

She  almost  thrust  her  out  of  the  apartment,  .and  listened  to 
hear  her  descend  the  stairs ;  then  she  waited  for  the  shutting  of 
the  chamber  door;  and  finally  she  stole  noiselessly  down  into 
the  passage,  and  let  herself  out  without  waiting  for  the  little 
maid  Margery. 


A  FIRST  PERFORMANCE.  153 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A  FIRST  PERFORMANCE. 

"  Nay,  zur,"  said  the  sour-visaged  Matthew,  as  he  leaned  his 
chin  and  both  hands  on  the  end  of  a  rake,  and  spoke  in  his 
slow-di'awling', grumbling  fashion — "nay,  zur,  this  country  be 
no  longer  the  country  it  wur;  no,  nor  never  will  be  again." 

"Why,  what  ails  the  land  ?"  said  Judith's  father,  turning 
from  the  small  table  in  the  summer-house,  and  lying  back  in 
his  chair,  and  crossing  one  knee  over  the  other,  as  if  he  would 
give  a  space  to  idleness. 

"Not  the  land,  zur,"  rejoined  goodman  Matthew,  oracularly 
— "not  the  land;  it  be  the  men  that  live  in  it,  and  that  ax*e  all 
in  such  haste  to  make  wealth,  with  plundering  of  the  poor  and 
of  each  other,  that  there's  naught  but  lying  and  cheating  and 
roguery — God-a-mercy,  there  never  wur  the  loike  in  any  coun- 
try under  the  sun !  Why,  zur,  in  my  vather's  time  a  pair  o' 
shoes  would  wear  you  through  all  weathers  for  a  year;  but 
now,  with  their  half-tanned  leather,  and  their  horse-hide,  and 
their  cat-skin  for  the  inner  sole,  'tis  a  marvel  if  the  rotten  leaves 
come  not  asunder  within  a  month.  And  they  be  all  aloike; 
the  devil  would  have  no  choice  among  'era.  The  cloth-maker 
he  hideth  his  bad  wool  wi'  liquid  stuff;  and  the  tailor,  no  mat- 
ter whether  it  be  doublet,  cloak,  or  hose,  he  will  filch  you  his 
quarter  of  the  cloth  ere  you  see  it  again  ;  and  the  chandler — he 
be  no  better  than  the  rest — he  will  make  you  his  wares  of  stink- 
ing offal  that  will  splutter  and  run  over,  and  do  aught  but  give 
good  light;  and  the  vintner,  marry,  who  knoweth  not  his  tricks 
and  knaveries  of  mixing  and  blending,  and  the  selling  of  poison 
instead  of  honest  liquor  ?  The  rogue  butcher,  too,  he  will  let 
the  blood  soak  in,  ay,  and  puff  wind  into  the  meat — meat, 
quotha ! — 'tis  as  like  as  not  to  have  been  found  dead  in  a  ditch !" 

"  A  bad  case  indeed,  good  Matthew,  if  they  be  all  preying  on 
each  other  so." 

" 'Tis  the  poor  man  pays  for  all,  zur.  Though  how  he  livcth 
to  pay  no  man  can  tell;  what  with  the  landlords  racking  the 


154  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

rents,  and  inclosing  the  commons  and  pasturages — nay,  'tis  a 
noble  pastime  the  making  of  parks  and  warrens,  and  shutting 
the  poor  man  out  that  used  to  have  his  cow  there  aud  a  pig 
or  two;  but  no,  now  shall  he  not  let  a  goose  stray  within  the 
fence.  And  what  help  hatli  the  poor  man  ?  May  he  go  to  the 
lawyers,  with  their  leases  and  clauses  that  none  can  understand 
— ay,  and  their  fists  that  must  be  well  greased  ere  they  set  to  the 
business  ?  'Tis  the  jDoor  man  pays  for  all,  zur,  I  warrant  ye ;  nor 
must  he  grumble  when  the  gentleman  goes  a-hunting  and 
breaks  down  his  hedges  and  tramples  his  corn.  Corn  ?  'Tis 
the  last  thing  they  think  of,  beshrew  me  else !  They  are  busi- 
est of  all  in  sending  our  good  English  grain — ay,  and  our  good 
English  beef  and  bacon  and  tallow — beyond  the  seas;  and  to 
bring  back  what  ? — baubles  of  glass  beads  and  amber,  fans  for 
my  ladies,  and  new  toys  from  Turkey !  The  proud  dames — I 
would  have  their  jjainted  faces  scratched!" 

"  What,  what,  good  Matthew  ?"  Judith's  father  said,  laugh- 
ing.    "  What  know  you  of  the  city  ladies  and  their  painting  ?" 

"  Nay,  nay,  zur,  the  London  tricks  be  spread  abroad,  I  war- 
rant ye;  there's  not  a  farmer's  wife  nowadays  but  must  have 
her  french-hood,  and  her  daughter  a  taffeta  cap — marry,  and  a 
grogram  gown  lined  through  with  velvet !  And  there  be  other 
towns  in  the  land  than  London  to  learn  the  London  tricks;  I 
have  heard  of  the  dames  and  their  daughters;  set  them  up 
with  their  pinching  and  girding  with  whalebone,  to  get  a  small 
waist  withal ! — ay,  and  the  swallowing  of  ashes  and  candles, 
and  whatever  will  spoil  their  stomach,  to  give  them  a  pale 
bleak  color.  Lord,  what  a  thing  'tis  to  be  rich  and  in  the 
fashion ! — let  the  poor  man  suffer  as  he  may.  Corn,  i'  faith ! — 
there  be  plenty  of  corn  grown  in  the  land,  God  wot ;  but  'tis 
main  too  dear  for  the  poor  man;  the  rack-rents  for  him,  and  a 
murrain  on  him;  the  corn  for  the  forestallers  and  the  mer- 
chants and  gentlemen,  that  send  it  out  of  the  country;  and 
back  come  the  silks  and  civets  for  proud  madam  and  her  paint- 
ed crew !" 

"God  have  mercy  on  us,  man!"  Judith's  father  exclaimed, 
and  he  drove  him  aside,  and  got  out  into  the  sunlight.  At  the 
same  moment  he  caught  sight  of  Judith  herself. 

"  Come  hither,  wench,  come  hither!"  he  called  to  her. 

She  was  nothing  loath.      She  had  merely  been  taking  some 


A  FIRST  PERFORMANCE.  155 

scraps  to  the  Don ;  and  seeing  Matthew  in  possession  there,  she 
had  not  even  staid  to  look  into  the  summer-house.  But  when 
her  father  came  out  and  called  to  her,  she  went  quickly  to- 
ward him ;  and  her  eyes  were  bright  enough,  on  this  bright 
morning. 

' '  What  would  you,  father  ?"  ^ 

For  answer  he  plucked  oflp  her  cap  and  threw  it  aside,  and 
took  hold  of  her  by  a  bunch  of  her  now  loosened  and  short 
sun-brown  curls. 

' '  Father !"  she  protested  (but  with  no  great  anger) .  ' '  There 
be  twenty  minutes'  work  undone !" 

"Where  bought  you  those  roses ?"  said  he,  sternly,  " An- 
swer me,  wench !" 

"  I  bought  no  I'oses,  father!" 

"The  paint  ?  Is"t  not  painted  ?  Where  got  you  such  a  face, 
madam  ?" 

"Father,  you  have  undone  my  hair;  and  the  parson  is  com- 
ing to  dinner." 

"Nay,  I'll  be  sworn  'tis  as  honest  a  face  as  good  Mother  Na- 
ture ever  made.     This  goodman  Matthew  hath  belied  you !" 

"What  said  he  of  me?"  she  asked,  with  a  flash  of  anger  in 
her  eyes. 

Her  father  put  his  hand  on  her  neck,  and  led  her  away. 

"Nay,  nay,  come  thy  ways,  lass ;  thou  shalt  pick  mc  a  liand- 
ful  of  raspberries.  And  as  for  thine  liair,  let  that  be  as  God 
made  it ;  'tis  even  better  so ;  and  yet,  methinks" — here  he  stopped, 
and  passed  his  hand  lightly  once  or  twice  over  her  head,  so  that 
any  half-imprisoned  curls  were  set  free — "  methinks,"  said  he, 
regarding  the  pretty  hair  with  considerable  favor,  "if  you 
would  as  lief  have  some  ornament  for  it,  I  saw  that  in  London 
that  would  answer  right  well.  'Twas  a  net- work  kind  of  cap; 
but  the  netting  so  fine  you  could  scarce  see  it;  and  at  each 
point  a  bead  of  gold.  Now,  Madame  Vanity,  what  say  you  to 
that  ?  Would  you  let  your  hair  grow  free  as  it  is  now,  and  let 
the  sunlight  play  with  it,  were  I  to  bring  thee  a  fairy  cap  all 
besprinkled  with  gold  ?" 

"I  will  wear  it  any  way  you  wish,  father,  and  right  glad- 
ly, "said  she,  "  and  I  will  have  no  cap  at  all  if  it  please  you." 

"Nay,  but  you  shall  have  the  gossamer  cap,  wench;  I  will 
not  forget  it  when  next  I  go  to  London." 


156  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

"  I  would  you  had  never  to  go  to  London  again,"  said  she, 
rather  timidly. 

He  regarded  her  for  a  second  with  a  scrutinizing  look,  and 
there  was  an  odd  sort  of  smile  on  his  face. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "I  was  but  this  minute  writing  about  a 
man  that  had  to  use  divers  arts  and  devices  for  the  attainment 
of  a  certain  end— yea,  and  devices  that  all  the  world  would  not 
approve  of,  perchance;  and  that  was  ever  promising  to  himself 
that  when  the  end  was  gained  he  would  ]3ut  aside  these  spells 
and  tricks,  and  be  content  to  live  as  other  men  live,  in  a  quiet 
and  ordinary  fashion.  Wouldst  have  me  live  ever  in  Stratford, 
good  lass  ?" 

"The  life  of  the  house  goes  out  when  you  go  away  from  us," 
said  she,  simply. 

"Well,  Stratford  is  no  wilderness,"  said  he,  cheerfully; 
"and  I  have  no  bitter  feud  with  mankind  that  I  would  live 
apart  from  them.  Didst  ever  think,  wench,"  he  added,  more 
absently,  ' '  how  sad  a  man  must  have  been  ere  he  could  speak  so : 

"Happy  were  he  could  finish  forth  his  fate 

In  some  unhaunted  desert,  most  obscure 
From  all  societies,  from  love  and  hate 

Of  worldly  folk ;  then  might  he  sleep  secure ; 
Then  wake  again,  and  ever  give  God  praise, 

Content  with  hips  and  haws  and  bramble-berry; 
In  contemplation  spending  all  his  days, 

And  change  of  holy  thoughts  to  make  him  merry; 
Where,  when  he  dies,  his  tomb  may  be  a  bush, 
Where  harmless  robin  dwells  with  gentle  thrush." 

"Is  it  that  you  are  writing  now,  father?" 

"Nay,  indeed,"  said  he,  slowly,  and  a  cloud  came  over  his 
face.  "That  was  written  by  one  that  was  my  good  friend 
in  by-gone  days ;  by  one  that  was  betrayed  and  done  to  death 
by  lying  tongues,  and  had  but  sorry  favor  shown  him  in  the 
end  by  those  he  had  served."  I 

He  turned  away.  She  thought  she  heard  him  say,  ' '  My  noble 
Essex,"  but  she  was  mutely  following  him.     And  then  he  said, 

"Come,  lass;  come  pick  me  the  berries." 

He  kept  walking  up  and  down,  by  himself,  while  her  nimble 
fingers  were  busy  with  the  bushes;  and  when  she  had  col- 
lected a  sufficiency  of  the  fruit,  and  brought  it  to  him,  she  fouud 
that  he  appeared  to  be  in  no  hurry  this  morning,  but  was  now 


A  FIRST  PERFORMANCE.  157 

grown  cheerful  again,  and  rather  inclined  to  talk  to  her.  And 
she  was  far  from  telling  him  that  her  proper  place  at  this  mo- 
ment was  within-doors,  to  see  that  the  maids  were  getting 
things  forward ;  and  if  she  bestowed  a  thought  of  any  kind  on 
the  good  pai'son,  it  was  to  the  effect  that  both  he  and  the  din- 
ner would  have  to  wait.  Her  father  had  hold  of  her  by  the  arm. 
He  was  talking  to  her  of  all  kinds  of  things,  as  they  slowly 
walked  up  and  down  the  path,  but  of  his  friends  in  Stratford 
mostly,  and  their  various  ways  of  living;  and  this  she  con- 
ceived to  have  some  reference  to  his  project  of  withdrawing 
altogether  from  London,  and  settling  down  for  good  amongst 
them.  Indeed,  so  friendly  and  communicative  was  he  on  this 
clear  morning — in  truth,  they  were  talking  like  brother  and 
sister — that  when  at  last  he  went  into  the  summer-house,  she 
made  bold  to  follow;  and  when  he  chanced  to  look  at  some 
sheets  lying  on  the  table,  she  said, 

"Father,  what  is  the  story  of  the  man  with  the  devices ?" 

For  an  instant  he  did  not  understand  what  she  meant;  then 
he  laughed. 

"Nay,  pay  you  no  heed  to  such  things,  child." 

"And  why  should  not  I,  father,  seeing  that  they  bring  you 
so  great  honor  ?" 

' '  Honor,  said  you  ?"  but  then  he  seemed  to  check  himself. 
This  was  not  Julius  Shawe,  to  whom  he  could  speak  freely 
enough  about  the  conditions  of  an  actor's  life  in  London. 
"Well,  then,  the  story  is  of  a  banished  duke,  a  man  of  great 
wisdom  and  skill,  and  he  is  living  on  a  desert  island  with  his 
daughter — a  right  fair  maiden  she  is,  too,  and  she  has  no  other 
companion  in  the  world  but  himself." 

"  But  he  is  kind  to  her  and  good  ?"  she  said,  quickly. 

"Truly." 

"What  other  companion  would  she  have,  then  ?  Is  she  not 
content— ay,  and  right  well  pleased  withal  ?" 

"Methinks  the  story  would  lag  with  but  these,"  her  father 
said,  with  a  smile.  "  Would  you  not  have  her  furnished  with 
a  lover — a  young  prince  and  a  handsome — one  that  would  play 
chess  with  her,  and  walk  with  her  while  her  father  was  busy  ?" 

' '  But  how  on  a  desert  island  ?  How  should  she  find  such  a 
one?"  Judith  said,  with  lier  eyes  all  intent. 

"There,  you  see,  is  where  the  magic  comes  in.     What  if 


158  JUDITH   SHAKESPEARE. 

her  father  have  at  his  command  a  sprite,  a  goblin,  that  can 
woi'k  all  wonders — that  can  dazzle  people  in  the  dark,  and 
control  the  storm,  and  whistle  the  young  prince  to  the  very  feet 
of  his  misti-ess?" 

Judith  sighed,  and  glanced  at  the  sheets  lying  on  the  table. 

"Alas,  good  father,  why  did  you  aid  me  in  my  folly,  and 
suffer  me  to  grow  up  so  ignorant  ?" 

"  Folly,  fond  wench!"  said  he,  and  he  caught  her  by  the 
shoulders  and  pushed  her  out  of  the  summer-house.  "Thank 
God  you  have  naught  to  do  with  any  such  stuff.  There,  go 
you  and  seek  out  Prudence,  and  get  you  into  the  fields,  and 
give  those  pink  roses  in  your  cheeks  an  airing.  Is't  not  a  rai-e 
morning  ?  And  you  would  blear  your  eyes  with  books,  silly 
wench  ?  Get  you  gone — into  the  meadows  with  you — and  you 
may  gather  me  a  nosegay  if  your  fingers  would  have  work." 

' '  I  must  go  in-doors,  father ;  good  Master  Blaise  is  coming  to 
dinner;  but  I  will  bring  you  the  nosegay  in  the  afternoon, 
so  please  you.  So  fare  you  well,"  she  added;  and  she  glanced 
at  him,  "and  pray  you,  sir,  be  kind  to  the  young  jirince." 

He  laughed  and  turned  away ;  and  she  hurried  quickly  into 
the  house.  In  truth,  all  through  that  day  she  had  plenty  to 
occupy  her  attention ;  but  whether  it  was  the  maids  that  were 
asking  her  questions,  or  her  mother  seeking  her  help,  or  good 
Master  Walter  paying  authoritative  court  to  her,  her  eyes  were 
entirely  distraught.  For  they  saw  before  them  a  strange  isl- 
and, with  magic  surrounding  it,  and  two  young  lovers,  ancl  a 
grave  and  elderly  man  regarding  them ;  and  she  gi-ew  to  won- 
der how  much  more  of  that  story  was  shut  up  in  the  summer- 
house,  and  to  lament  her  misfortune  in  that  she  could  not  go 
boldly  to  her  father  and  ask  him  to  be  allowed  to  read  it.  She 
felt  quite  certain  that  could  she  but  sit  down  within  there,  and 
peruse  these  sheets  for  herself,  he  would  not  say  her  nay ;  and 
from  that  conclusion  to  the  next — that  on  the  first  chance 
she  would  endeavor  to  borrow  the  sheets  and  have  them  read  to 
her — was  but  an  obvious  step,  and  one  that  she  had  frequently 
taken  before.  Moreover,  on  this  occasion  the  chance  came  to 
her  sooner  than  she  could  have  expected.  Toward  dusk  in 
the  evening  her  father  went  out,  saying  that  he  was  going  along 
to  see  how  the  Harts  were  doing.  Matthew  gardener  was  gone 
home;  the  parson  had  left  hours  befoi'c;  and  lier  mother  was 


A  FIRST  PERFORMANCE.  159 

in  the  brew-liouse,  and  out  of  hearing.  Finally,  to  crown  her 
good  fortune,  she  discovered  that  the  key  had  been  left  in  the 
door  of  the  summer-house ;  and  so  the  next  minute  found  her 
inside  on  her  knees. 

It  was  a  difficult  task.  There  was  scarcely  any  light,  for 
she  dared  not  leave  the  door  open ;  and  the  mark  that  she  put 
on  the  sheets,  to  know  which  she  had  carried  to  Prudence,  was 
minute.  And  yet  the  sheets  seemed  to  have  been  tossed  into 
this  receptacle  in  fairly  regular  order ;  and  when  at  length,  and 
after  much  straining  of  her  eyes,  she  had  got  down  to  the  mark- 
ed ones,  she  was  rejoiced  to  find  that  there  remained  above 
these  a  large  bulk  of  unperused  matter,  and  the  question  was 
as  to  how  much  it  would  be  prudent  to  carry  off.  Further, 
slie  had  to  discover  where  there  was  some  kind  of  division,  so 
that  the  story  should  not  abruptly  break  off ;  and  she  had  ac- 
quired some  experience  in  this  direction.  In  the  end,  the  por- 
tion of  the  play  that  she  resolved  upon  taking  with  her  was 
modest  and  small;  there  would  be  the  less  likelihood  of  detec- 
tion ;  and  it  was  just  possible  that  she  would  have  no  oi)por- 
tunity  of  returning  the  sheets  that  night. 

And  then  she  quickly  got  in-doors,  and  put  on  her  hood  and 
muffler,  and  slipped  out  into  the  dusk.  Slie  found  Prudence 
alone  in  the  lower  room,  sitting  sewing,  the  candles  on  the 
table  being  already  lit ;  and  some  distance  off,  curled  up  and 
fast  asleep  on  the  floor,  lay  the  little  spaniei-gentle. 

"Dear  heart,"  said  Judith,  brightlj^,  as  she  glanced  at  the 
little  dog,  ' '  you  have  shown  good  sense  after  all ;  I  feared  me 
you  would  fall  away  from  my  wise  counsel." 

"My  brother  was  well  inclined  to  the  little  creature," Pru- 
dence said,  with  some  embarrassment. 

"  And  you  had  a  right  merry  evening,  I'll  be  bound,"  Judith 
continued,  blithely.  "  And  was  there  singing? — iiay,  he  can 
sing  well  when  he  is  in  the  mood — none  better.     Did  he  give 

you 

'There  is  a  garden  in  lier  face 
Where  roses  and  wiiite  lilies  grow,' 

for  Julius  is  more  light-hearted  in  such  matters  than  you  are, 
dear  mouse.  And  was  there  any  trencher  business — and  wine  ? 
I  warrant  me  Julius  would  not  have  his  guest  sit  dry-throated. 
'Twas  a  merry  evening,  iji  good  sooth,  sweetheart?" 

7 


160  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

"They  talked  much  together," Prudence  said,  with  her  eyes 
cast  down. 

'■'■They  talked?  Mercy  on  us,  were  you  not  civil  to  him? 
Did  you  not  thank  him  prettily  for  the  little  spaniel  ?" 

"In  a  measure  I  think  'twas  Julius  took  the  little  creature 
from  him,"  Prudence  said,  bashfully. 

' '  Beshrew  me  now,  but  you  know  better ! — 'twas  given  to 
you,  you  know  right  well.  A  spaniel-gentle  for  your  brother ! 
As  soon  would  he  think  of  a  fai-thingale  and  a  petticoat !  And 
what  did  he  say?  Had  he  aught  special  to  say  to  you,  dear 
mouse  ?" 

"  He  would  have  me  look  at  a  book  he  had,  with  strange  de- 
vices on  the  leaves, "  Prudence  said.  ' '  Truly  'twas  strange  and 
wonderful,  the  ornamentation  of  it  in  gold  and  colors,  though 
I  doubt  me  'twas  the  work  of  monks  and  priests.  He  would 
have  me  take  it  from  him,"  she  added,  with  a  faint  blush. 

"And  you  would  not,  silly  one  ?"  Judith  exclaimed,  angrily. 

"Would  you  have  me  place  such  Popish  emblems  alongside 
such  a  book  as  that  that  Dr.  Hall  gave  me  ?  Dear  Judith, 
'twould  be  a  pollution  and  a  sin !" 

"  But  you  gave  him  thanks  for  the  ofiPer,  then  ?" 

"  Of  a  surety;  'twas  meant  in  friendship." 

"Well,  well;  right  glad  am  I  to  see  the  little  beast  lying- 
there;  and  methinks  your  gentleness  hath  cast  a  spell  o'er  it  al- 
ready, sweetheart,  or  'twould  not  rest  so  soundly.  And  now, 
dear  mouse,  I  have  come  to  tax  your  patience  once  moi-e :  see, 
here  is  part  of  the  new  play ;  and  we  must  go  to  your  chamber, 
dear  Prue,  lest  some  one  come  in  and  discover  us." 

Prudence  laughed  in  her  quiet  fashion. 

"I  think  'tis  you  that  casteth  spells,  Judith,  else  I  should 
not  be  aiding  thee  in  this  j)erilous  matter." 

But  she  took  one  of  the  candles  in  her  hand  nevertheless, 
and  led  the  way  upstairs ;  and  then,  when  they  had  carefully 
bolted  the  door,  Judith  placed  the  roll  of  sheets  on  the  table, 
and  Prudence  sat  down  to  arrange  and  decipher  them. 

"But  this  time,"  Judith  said,  "have  I  less  weight  on  my 
conscience ;  for  my  father  hath  already  told  me  part  of  the  story, 
ajid  why  should  not  I  know  the  rest  ?  Nay,  but  it  promises 
well,  I  do  assure  thee,  sweetheart.  'Tis  a  rare  beginning:  the 
desert  island,  and  the  sprite  that  can  work  wonders,  and  the 


A  FIRST  PERFORMANCE.  161 

poor  banished  duke  and  his  daughter.  Ay,  and  there  conies  a 
handsome  young  jDrince,  too ;  marry,  you  shall  hear  of  marvels ! 
For  the  sprite  is  one  that  can  work  magic  at  the  bidding  of  the 
duke,  and  be  seen  like  a  fire  in  the  dark,  and  can  lead  a  storm 
whither  he  lists — " 

"'Tis  with  a  stoi'm  that  it  begins,"  Prudence  said,  for  now 
she  had  arranged  the  sheets. 

And  instantly  Judith  was  all  attention.  It  is  ti'ue,  she  seem- 
ed to  care  little  for  the  first  scene  and  the  squabbles  between 
the  sailors  and  the  gentlemen ;  she  was  anxious  to  get  to  the 
enchanted  island;  and  when  at  length  Pi-udence  introduced 
Prospero  and  Miranda,  Judith  listened  as  if  a  new  world  were 
being  slowly  opened  before  her.  And  yet  not  altogether  with 
silence,  for  sometimes  she  would  utter  a  few  words  of  quick 
assent,  or  even  explanation ;  but  always  so  as  not  to  interfere 
with  the  gentle- voiced  reader.     Thus  it  would  go : 

"Then  Prospero  says  to  her — 

'Be  collected: 
No  more  amazement :  tell  your  piteous  heart 
There's  no  harm  done. 

Miranda.  Oh,  woe  the  day ! 

Prospero.  No  harm. 

I  have  done  nothing  but  in  care  of  thee, 
Of  thee,  my  dear  one,  thee,  my  daughter,  who 
Art  ignorant  of  what  thou  art,  naught  knowing 
Of  whence  I  am,  nor  that  I  am  more  better 
Than  Prospero,  master  of  a  full  poor  cell, 
And  thy  no  greater  father. 

Miranda.  More  to  know 

Did  never  meddle  with  my  thoughts.' " 

"A  right  dutiful  daughter!"  Judith  would  exclaim — but  as 
apart.  "A  rare  good  wench,  I  Avarrant;  and  what  a  gentle 
father  he  is  withal !" 

And  then,  when  the  banished  duke  had  come  to  the  end  of 
his  story,  and  when  he  had  caused  slumber  to  fall  upon  his 
daughter's  eyes,  and  was  about  to  summon  Ariel,  Judith  inter- 
posed to  give  the  patient  reader  a  rest. 

"And  what  say  you,  Prudence?"  said  she,  eagerly.  "Is't 
not  a  beautiful  story  ?  Is  she  not  a  sweet  and  obedient  maid- 
en, and  he  a  right  noble  and  gentle  father  ?  Ah,  there,  now, 
they  may  talk  about  their  jnasques  and  pageants  of  the  court, 
and  gods  and  goddesses  dressed  up  to  saw  the  air  with  long 


162  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

speeches :  see  you  what  my  father  can  tell  you  in  a  few  words, 
so  that  you  can  scarcely  wait,  but  must  on  to  hear  the  rest. 
And  do  I  hurry  you,  good  Prue  ?  Will  you  to  it  again  ?  For 
now  the  spirit  is  summoned  that  is  to  work  the  magic." 

"Indeed,  'tis  no  heavy  labor,  Judith,"  her  friend  said,  with 
a  smile.      ' '  And  now  here  is  your  Ariel : 

'All  hail!  great  master!  grave  sir,  hail!  I  come 

To  answer  thy  best  pleasure ;  be't  to  fly, 

To  swim,  to  dive  into  the  fire,  to  ride 

On  the  curled  clouds ;  to  thy  strong  bidding  task 

Ariel  and  all  his  quality !' 

Then  says  Prospero : 

'  Hast  thou,  spirit, 
Performed  to  point  the  tempest  that  I  bade  thee? 

Ariel.  To  every  article. 

I  boarded  the  King's  ship ;  now  on  the  beak. 
Now  in  the  waist,  the  deck,  in  every  cabin, 
I  flamed  amazement;  sometimes  I'd  divide, 
And  burn  in  many  places;  on  the  topmast. 
The  yards  and  bowsprit,  would  I  flame  distinctlj'. 
Then  meet  and  Join.     Jove's  lightnings,  the  precursors 
0'  the  dreadful  thunder-claps,  more  momentary 
And  sight-outrunning  were  not.  .  .  . 

Proxpcro.  My  brave  spirit ! 

Who  was  so  firm,  so  constant,  that  this  coil 
Would  not  infect  his  reason? 

A7-iel.  Not  a  soul 

But  felt  a  fever  of  the  mad,  and  played 
Some  tricks  of  desperation.     All  but  mariners 
Plunged  in  the  foaming  brine  and  quit  the  vessel, 
Then  all  afire  with  me :  the  King's  son  Ferdinand — ' " 

"The  prince,  sweetheart! — the  prince  that  is  to  be  brought 
ashore." 

"Doubtless,  Judith. 

'  The  King's  son  Ferdinand, 
With  hair  up-staring — then  like  reeds,  not  hair — 
Was  the  first  man  that  leaped :  cried,  "  Hell  is  empty, 
And  all  the  devils  are  here." 

Prospero.  Why,  that's  my  spirit ! 

But  was  not  this  nigh  shore  ? 

Ariel.  Close  by,  my  master. 

Prospero.     But  are  they,  Ariel,  safe? 

Ariel.  Not  a  hair  perished. 

On  their  sustaining  garments  not  a  blemish. 
But  fresher  than  before;  and,  as  thou  badst  me, 
The  King's  son  have  I  landed  by  himself; 
Whom  I  left  cooling  of  tlie  air  with  sighs 
In  an  odd  angle  of  the  isle,  and  sitting. 
His  arms  in  this  sad  knot.' " 


A  FIRST  PERFORMANCE.  163 

"And  hatli  he  not  done  well,  that  clever  imp !"  Judith  cried. 
"Nay,  but  my  father  shall  rewai-d  him— that  he  shall— 'twas 
bravely  done  and  well.  And  now  to  bring  him  to  the  maiden 
that  hath  never  seen  a  sweetheart— that  comes  next,  good 
Prue  ?     I  marvel  now  what  she  will  say  ?" 

"'Tis  not  yet,  Judith,"  her  friend  said,  and  she  continued 
the  reading,  while  Judith  sat  and  regarded  the  dusky  shadows 
beyond  the  flame  of  the  candle  as  if  wonder-land  were  shining 
there.  Then  they  ari-ived  at  Ariel's  song,  "Come  unto  these 
yellow  sands,"  and  all  the  hushed  air  around  seemed  filled 
with  music;  but  it  was  distant,  somehow,  so  that  it  did  not 
interfere  with  Prudence's  gentle  voice. 

""Then  says  Prospero  to  her: 

'  The  fringed  curtains  of  thine  eye  advance, 
And  sav  what  thou  seest  vond. 

Miranda.  '     What  is't?  a  spirit? 

Lord,  how  it  looks  about !     Believe  me,  sir, 
It  carries  a  brave  form.     But  'tis  a  spirit. 

Prospero.  No,  wench ;  it  eats  and  sleeps,  and  hath  such  senses 
As  we  have,  such.     This  gallant  which  thou  seest 
Was  in  the  wreck ;  and  but  he's  something  stained 
With  grief,  that's  beauty's  canker,  thou  might'st  call  him 
A  goodly  person.     He  hath  lost  his  fellows, 
And  strays  about  to  find  them. 

Miranda.  I  might  call  him 

A  thing  divine,  for  nothing  natural 
I  ever  saw  so  noble.' " 

"  And  what  says  he  ?  What  thinks  he  of  her  ?"  Judith  said, 
eagerly. 

"Nay,  first  the  father  says— to  himself,  as  it  were: 

'  It  goes  on,  I  see. 
As  my  soul  prompts  it.      Spirit,  fine  spirit!      I'll  free  thee 
Within  two  days,  for  this.' 

And  then  the  Prince  says : 

'  Most  sure,  the  goddess 
On  whom  these  airs  attend !    Vouchsafe,  my  prayer 
May  know,  if  you  remain  upon  this  island ; 
And  that  you  will  some  good   instruction  give. 
How  I  may  bear  me  here;  my  prime  request, 
Which  I  do  last  pronounce,  is,  0  you  wonder  I 
If  you  be  maid  or  no? 

Miranda.  No  wonder,  sir, 

But  certainly  a  maid. 

Ferdinand.  My  language!   heavens! 

I  am  tiie  best  of  them  that  speak  this  speech, 
Were  I  but  where  'tis  spoken.'  " 


164  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

"But  would  he  take  her  away?"  said  Judith,  quickly  (but 
to  herself ,  as  it  were).  "Nay,  never  so!  They  must  remain 
on  the  island — the  two  happy  lovers — with  Ariel  to  wait  on 
them :  surely  my  father  will  so  make  it  ?" 

Then,  as  it  appeared,  came  trouhle  to  check  the  too  swift  an- 
ticipations of  the  Prince,  though  Judith  guessed  that  the  father 
of  Miranda  was  but  feigning  in  his  wrath ;  and  when  Prudence 
finally  came  to  the  end  of  such  sheets  as  had  been  brought 
her,  and  looked  up,  Judith's  eyes  were  full  of  confidence  and 
pride — not  only  because  she  was  sure  that  the  story  would  end 
happily,  but  also  because  she  would  have  her  chosen  gossip 
say  something  about  what  she  had  read. 

"Well?"  said  she. 

"'Tis  a  marvel,"  Prudence  said,  with  a  kind  of  sigh,  "that 
shapes  of  the  air  can  so  take  hold  of  us." 

Judith  smiled ;  there  was  something  in  her  manner  that  Pru- 
.^ence  did  not  understand. 

' '  And  Master  Jonson,  good  Prue — that  they  call  Ben  Jonson 
t-what  of  him  ?" 

"I  know  not  what  you  mean,  Judith." 

"  Sure  you  know  they  make  so  much  of  him  at  the  court, 
and  of  his  long  speeches  about  Greece  and  Rome  and  the  like ; 
and  when  one  comes  into  the  country  witli  news  of  what  is  go- 
ing forward,  by  my  life  you'd  think  that  Master  Jonson  were 
the  only  writer  in  the  land !  What  say  you,  good  Prue :  could 
worthy  Master  Jonson  invent  you  a  scene  like  that  ?" 

"In  truth  I  know  not,  Judith;  I  never  read  aught  of  his 
writing." 

Judith  took  over  the  sheets  and  carefully  rolled  them  up. 

"Why,"  said  she,  "'twas  my  father  brought  him  forward, 
and  had  his  first  play  taken  in  at  the  theatre !" 

"But  your  father  and  he  are  great  friends,  Judith,  as  I  am 
told ;  why  should  you  speak  against  him  ?" 

"I  speak  against  him?"  said  Judith,  as  she  rose,  and  there 
was  an  air  of  calm  indifference  on  her  face.  ' '  In  truth,  I  have 
naught  to  say  against  the  good  man.  'Tis  well  that  the  court 
ladies  are  pleased  with  Demogoi'gous  and  such  idle  stuff,  and 
'tis  passing  well  that  he  knows  the  trade.  Now  give  ye  good- 
night and  sweet  dreams,  sweet  mouse;  and  good  thanks,  too, 
for  the  reading." 


BY  THE  RIVER.  165 

But  at  the  door  below — Prudence  having  followed  her  with 
the  candle — she  turned,  and  said,  in  a  whisper: 

"Now  tell  me  true,  good  cousin:  think  you  my  father  hath 
ever  done  better  than  this  magic  island,  and  the  sweet  Miranda, 
and  the  rest  ?" 

"You  know  I  am  no  judge  of  such  matters,  Judith, " her 
friend  answered. 

"But,  dear  heart,  were  you  not  bewitched  by  it  ?  Were  you 
not  taken  away  thither  ?  Saw  you  not  those  strange  things 
before  your  very  eyes  ?" 

"  In  good  sooth,  then,  Judith,"  said  the  other,  with  a  smile, 
"  for  the  time  being  I  knew  not  that  I  was  in  Stratford  town, 
nor  in  our  own  countrj'^  of  England  either." 

Judith  laughed  lightly  and  quickly,  and  with  a  kind  of  iiride 
too.  And  when  she  got  home  to  her  own  room,  and  once  more 
regarded  the  roll  of  sheets,  before  bestowing  them  away  in  a 
secret  place,  there  was  a  fine  bravery  of  triumph  in  her  eyes. 
"Ben  Jonson!"  she  said,  but  no  longer  with  any  anger,  rather 
with  a  sov^ereign  contempt.  And  then  she  locked  up  the  trea- 
sure in  her  small  cupboard  of  boxes,  and  went  down-staii's 
again  to  seek  out  her  mother,  her  heart  now  quite  recovered 
from  its  envy,  and  beating  warm  and  equally  in  its  disposition 
toward  all  mankind,  and  her  mind  full  of  a  perfect  and  com- 
placent confidence.      "  Ben  Jon.son !"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

BY  THE  RIVER. 


The  next  morning  she  was  unusually  demure,  and  yet  merry 
withal.  In  her  own  chamber,  as  slie  chose  out  a  petticoat  of 
pale  blue  taffeta,  and  laid  on  the  bed  her  girdle  of  buff-colored 
leather,  and  proceeded  to  array  herself  in  these  and  other 
braveries,  it  was  to  the  usual  accompaniment  of  thoughtless 
and  quite  inconsequent  ballad-singing.  At  one  moment  it  was 
"Green-sleeves  was  all  my  joy,"  and  again  "Fair,  fair,  and 
twice  so  fair,"  or  perhaps — 

"An  ambling  nafi,  and  a-doi''?),  a-down, 
We  /lave  borne  her  away  to  Dargiiswi.''^ 


166  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

But  when  she  came  to  take  forth  from  the  cupboard  of  boxes 
the  portion  of  the  play  she  had  locked  up  there  the  night  be- 
fore, and  when  she  carefully  placed  that  in  a  satchel  of  dark 
blue  velvet  that  she  had  attached  to  the  girdle,  she  was  silent ; 
and  when  she  went  down-stairs  and  encountered  her  mother, 
there  was  a  kind  of  anxious  innocence  on  her  face.  The  good 
parson  (she  explained)  had  remained  so  late  on  the  previous 
afternoon,  and  there  were  so  many  things  about  the  house  she 
had  to  attend  to,  that  she  had  been  unable  to  get  out  into  the 
fields,  as  her  father  had  bade  her,  to  bring  him  home  some  wild 
flowers.  Besides,  as  every  one  knew,  large  dogs  got  weak 
in  the  hind-legs  if  they  were  kept  chained  up  too  continuously ; 
and  it  was  absolutely  necessary  she  should  take  Don  Roderigo 
out  for  a  run  with  her  through  the  meadows,  if  her  father 
would  permit. 

"  There  be  plenty  of  flowers  in  the  garden,  surely,"  her  mo- 
ther said,  who  was  busy  with  some  leather  hangings,  and 
wanted  help. 

"  But  he  would  liefer  have  some  of  the  little  wildlings,  good 
mother,"  said  Judith.  "That  I  know  right  Avell;  for  he  is 
pleased  to  see  them  lying  on  the  table  before  him;  and  some- 
times, too,  he  puts  the  names  of  them  in  his  writing." 

"  How  know  you  that?"  was  the  quick  and  sharp  question. 

"As  I  have  heard,  good  mother,"  Judith  said,  with  calm 
equanimity. 

And  then  she  went  to  the  small  mirror  to  see  that  her  gray 
velvet  cap  and  starched  ruff  were  all  right. 

"  What  can  your  father  want  with  wild  flowers  if  he  is  to  re- 
main the  whole  day  at  Warwick  ?"  her  motlier  said. 

"Is  my  father  going  to  Warwick ?"  she  asked,  quickly. 

"  If  he  be  not  already  set  forth." 

She  glanced  at  the  window ;  there  was  neither  horse  nor 
serving-man  waiting  there.  And  then  she  hastily  went  out 
and  through  the  back  yard  into  the  garden ;  and  there,  sure 
enough,  was  her  father,  ready  booted  for  the  road,  and  giving 
a  few  parting  directions  to  his  bailiff. 

■  Well,  wench,"  he  said,  when   he  had   finished  with   the 
man,  "what  would  you  ?" 

She  had  taken  from  her  purse  all  the  money  she  could  find 
there. 


BY  THE  RIVER.  167 

"Good  father,"  said  she,  "will  you  do  this  errand  for  me  at 
Warwick  ?" 

"More  vanities?"  said  he.  "I  wonder  you  have  no  com- 
missioner to  dispatch  to  Spain  and  Flanders.  What  is't,  then  ? 
— a  muff  of  satin— a  gimmal  ring — " 

"No,  no,  not  so,  father;  I  would  have  you  huy  for  me  a 
clasp-knife— as  good  a  one  as  the  money  will  get;  and  the  cut- 
ler must  engrave  on  the  blade,  or  on  the  handle,  I  care  not 
which,  a  message— an  inscription,  as  it  were;  'tis  but  three 
words — For  Judith's  Sweetheart.  Could  you  remember  that, 
good  father  ?    Is't  too  much  of  a  trouble  ?" 

"How  now?"  said  he.  "For  whom  do  you  wish  me  to 
bring  you  such  a  token  ?" 

"Nay,  sir,"  said  she,  "would  you  have  me  name  names? 
The  gift  of  a  sweetheart  to  a  sweetheart  is  a  secret  thing." 

"You  are  a  mad  wench,"  said  he  (though  doubtless  he 
guessed  for  whom  the  knife  was  intended),  and  he  called  to 
Matthew  gardener  to  go  round  and  see  if  Master  Shawe  were 
not  yet  ready.  "  But  now  I  bethink  me,  child,  I  have  a  mes- 
sage for  thee.  Good  Master  Walter  spoke  to  me  yesternight 
about  what  much  concerns  him — and  you." 

Instantly  all  her  gay  self-confidence  vanished ;  she  became 
confused,  anxious,  timid;  and  she  regarded  him  as  if  she 
feai-ed  what  his  look  or  manner  might  convey. 
"Yes,  sir,"she  said,  in  rather  a  low  voice. 
"Well,  you  know  what  the  good  man  wishes,"  her  father 
said,  "and  be  speaks  fairly,  and  re^soneth  well.  Your  mother, 
too,  would  be  right  well  pleased." 

"And  you,  sir  ?"  she  said,  rather  faintly. 

"I?"  said  he.  "Nay,  'tis  scarce  a  matter  that  I  can  say 
ought  ill.  'Tis  for  yourself  to  decide,  wench ;  but  were  you 
inclined  to  favor  the  young  parson,  I  should  be  well  pleased 
enough — indeed  'tis  so — a  good  man  and  lionest,  as  I  take  him 
to  be,  of  fair  attainment,  and  I  know  of  none  that  bear  iiim  ill- 
will,  or  have  ought  to  say  against  him.  Nay,  if  your  heart 
be  set  that  way,  wench,  I  see  no  harm;  you  are  getting  on 
in  years  to  be  still  in  the  unmarried  state;  and,  as  he  himself 
says,  there  would  be  security  in  seeing  you  settled  in  a  home 
of  your  own,  and  your  future  no  longer  open  and  undecided. 
Nay,  nay,  I  see  no  harm.     He  reasons  well." 

7* 


168  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

' '  But,  father,  know  you  why  he  would  have  me  become  his 
wife  ?"  Judith  said,  with  a  wild  feeling  overcoming  her  that 
she  was  drowning,  and  must  needs  throw  out  her  hands  for 
help.  ' '  'Tis  for  no  matter  of  affection  that  I  can  make  out — 
or  that  he  might  not  as  well  choose  any  other  in  the  town ; 
but  'tis  that  I  should  help  him  in  his  work,  and — and  labor  in 
the  vineyard,  as  he  saith.  In  truth  I  am  all  unfit  for  such  a 
task — there  be  many  another  far  better  fitted  than  I ;  my  mo- 
ther must  know  that  right  well.  There  is  little  that  I  would 
not  do  to  please  her;  but  surely  we  might  all  of  us  have  just 
as  much  of  the  good  man's  company  without  this  further  bond. 
But  what  say  you,  father  ?  What  is  your  wish  V  she  added, 
humbly.  "Perchance  I  could  bring  my  mind  to  it  if  all  were 
anxious  that  it  should  be  so." 

"Why,  I  have  told  thee,  wench,  thou  must  choose  for  thy- 
self. 'Twould  please  your  mother  right  well,  as  I  say ;  anil  as 
for  the  duties  of  a  parson's  wife — nay,  nay,  they  are  none  so 
difficult.  Have  no  fears  on  that  score,  good  lass;  I  dare  be 
sworn  you  are  as  honest  and  well-minded  as  most,  though  per- 
chance you  make  less  profession  of  it."  (The  gratitude  that 
spi'ang  to  her  eyes,  and  shone  there,  in  spite  of  her  downcast 
face!)  "Nor  must  you  think  the  good  parson  has  but  that 
end  in  view ;  'tis  not  in  keeping  with  his  calling  that  he  should 
talk  the  language  of  romances.  Consider  it,  wench — consider. 
And  there  is  more  for  you  to  think  of.  Even  if  Master  Blaise 
be  no  vehement  lover,  as  some  of  the  young  rattlepates  might 
be,  that  is  but  a  temporary  thing;  'tis  the  long  years  of  life 
that  weigh  for  the  most;  and  all  through  these  you  would  be 
in  an  honorable  station,  well  thought  of,  and  respected.  Nay, 
there  be  many,  I  can  tell  thee,  lass,  that  might  look  askance 
now  at  the  player's  daughter,  who  would  be  right  glad  to  wel- 
come the  parson's  wife." 

"  What  say  you,  father  ?"  said  she — and  she  was  so  startled 
that  the  blood  forsook  her  lips  for  a  moment.  "That— that 
there  be  those— who  scorn  the  player's  daughter — and  would 
favor  the  parson's  wife  ?"  And  then  she  instantly  added:  "I 
pi'ay  you,  sir,  did  not  you  say  that  I  wa-s  to  decide  for  myself  ?" 

"Truly,  child,  truly,"  said  he,  somewhat  wondering  at  her 
manner,  for  her  face  had  grown  quite  pale. 

"Then  I  have  decided,  father." 


BY   THE   RIVER.  169 

"  And  how  ?  What  answer  will  you  have  for  Master  Wal- 
tejf  ?" 

She  spoke  slowly  now,  and  w^ith  a  distinctness  that  was  al- 
most harsh. 

"  This,  so  please  you,  sir — that  the  player's  daughter  shall 
not,  and  shall  never,  become  the  parson's  wife,  God  helping 
her!" 

"Why,  how  now?  what  a  coil  is  this!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Good  lass,  'twas  not  the  parson  that  said  ought  of  the  kind. 
Lay  not  that  to  his  charge,  in  fair  honesty." 

"I  have  decided, "she  said,  proudly  and  coldly.  "Father, 
the  horses  are  brought  round — I  can  hear  them.  You  will 
not  forget  the  knife,  and  the  message  on  the  blade  ?" 

He  looked  at  her,  and  laughed,  but  in  a  kindly  way;  and 
he  took  her  by  the  shoulder. 

"Nay, now,  wench,  thou  shalt  not  throw  over  the  good  man 
for  a  matter  that  was  none  of  his  bringing  forward.  And  why 
should  you  wish  to  have  less  than  the  respect  of  all  your  neigh- 
bors, all  and  sundry,  whatever  be  their  views  ?  In  good  sooth 
I  meant  to  speak  for  the  parson,  and  not  to  harm  him ;  and 
when  I  have  more  time  I  must  undo  the  ill  that  I  have  done 
him.  So  soften  your  heart,  you  proud  one,  and  be  thankful 
for  the  honor  he  would  do  you  ;  and  think  over  it;  and  be  civil 
and  grateful." 

"Nay,  I  will  be  civil  enough  to  the  good  minister,"  said  she, 
with  a  return  to  her  ordinary  placid  humor,  "if  he  speak  no 
more  of  making  me  his  wife." 

"He  will  win  you  yet,  for  as  stubborn  as  you  are,"  her  fa- 
ther said,  with  a  smile.  "He  hath  a  rai'e  gift  of  reason;  do 
not  say  nay  too  soon,  wench,  lest  you  have  to  recall  your 
words.     Fare  you  well,  lass,  fare  you  well !" 

"And  forget  not  the  knife,  good  father.  'With  Judith's 
Love,'' or  '  For  Judith's  Siveetheart,'  or  what  you  will."  And 
then  she  added,  daringly:  "  'Tis  for  the  young  prince  Mamil- 
lius,  if  you  must  know,  good  sir." 

He  was  just  going  away;  but  this  caused  him  to  stop  for  a 
second;  and  he  glanced  at  her  with  a  curious  kind  of  suspicion. 
But  lior  eyes  had  become  quite  inscrutable.  Whatever  of  dark 
mischief  was  witliin  them  was  not  to  be  made  out  but  by  fur- 
ther questioning,  and  for  that  he  had  now  no  time.     So  she 


170  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

was  left  alone,  mistress  of  the  field,  and  rather  inclined  to 
laugh  at  her  own  temerity ;  until  it  occurred  to  her  that  now 
she  could  go  leisurely  forth  for  lier  stroll  along  the  banks  of  the 
Avon,  taking  the  great  dog  with  her. 

Indeed,  her  anger  was  always  short-lived.  Or  perhaps  it 
was  the  feeling  that  this  danger  was  got  rid  of — that  the  de- 
cision was  taken,  and  the  parson  finally  and  altogether  left 
behind  her — that  now  raised  her  spirits.  At  all  events,  as  she 
went  along  the  thoroughfare,  and  cheerfully  greeted  those  that 
met  her,  the  neighbors  said  'twas  little  wonder  that  Master 
William  Shakespeare's  second  daughter  put  off  the  choosing  of 
a  mate  for  herself,  for  that  she  seemed  to  grow  younger  and 
more  winsome  every  day.  And-  she  knew  all  the  children  by 
name,  and  had  a  word  for  them — scolding  or  merry,  as  the  case 
miglit  be — when  that  she  passed  tliem  by ;  and  what  with  the 
dear  sunlight  of  the  morning,  and  the  fresher  atmosphere  as 
she  got  out  of  the  town,  it  seemed  to  herself  as  if  all  the  air 
were  filled  with  music. 

"  Then  sigh  iiot  so,  but  let  (hem  go, 
And  be  you  blithe  and  bon7iy," 

she  said  or  sung  to  herself ;  and  she  had  not  a  trace  of  ill-will 
in  her  mind  against  the  parson  (although  she  did  not  fail  to 
recollect  that  she  was  a  player's  daughter) ;  and  she  was  ad- 
monishing the  Don  to  take  good  care  of  her,  for  that  phantom 
conspirators  and  such  like  evil  creatures  might  be  about.  And 
so  she  got  down  to  the  river-side;  but  she  did  not  cross;  she 
kept  along  by  the  path  that  followed  the  windings  of  the 
stream,  between  the  wide  meadows  and  the  luxurious  vegeta- 
tion that  overhung  the  current. 

This  English-looking  landscape  was  at  its  fairest  on  this  fair 
morning,  for  some  heavy  rain  in  the  night  had  washed  the  at- 
mosphere clear;  eveiything  seemed  sharp  and  luminous;  and 
the  rows  of  trees  along  the  summits  of  the  distant  and  low-ly- 
ing hills  were  almost  black  against  the  white  and  blue  sky. 
Nearer  her  all  the  foliage  of  the  wide-branching  elms  was 
stirring  and  rustling  before  a  soft  westerly  breeze ;  the  flooded 
river  was  of  a  tawny  brown ;  while  its  banks  were  a  wilderness 
of  wild  flowers  between  the  steins  of  the  stunted  willows — 
straggling  rose-bushes  of  white  and  red,  tall  masses  of  goose- 


BY  TUE  RIVER.  171 

grass  all  powdered  over  with  cream- white  blossom,  a  patch  of 
fragrant  meadow-sweet  here  and  there,  or  an  occasional  blood- 
red  poppy  burning  among  the  dark  dull  greens.  And  as  for 
companions  ?  Well,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  brood  of  ducks 
sidling  along  by  the  reeds,  and  tried  to  follow  them,  but  the 
bushes  shut  them  out  from  her  sight.  A  mare  and  her  foal, 
standing  under  the  cool  shadow  of  the  trees,  gazed  blankly 
at  her  as  she  passed.  Further  off  there  were  some  shorn  sheep 
in  the  meadows ;  but  she  could  see  no  shepherd.  The  harsh 
note  of  the  corn-ci*ake  sounded  somewhere  in  the  long  grass; 
and  the  bees  were  busy;  and  now  and  again  a  blue-backed 
swallow  would  swoop  by  her  and  over  the  stream ;  while  all 
around  there  was  a  smell  of  clover  sweetening  the  westerly 
wind.  At  this  moment,  she  convinced  lierself,  she  bore  no 
ill-will  at  all  against  the  good  parson:  only  tbat  she  had  it  in 
her  mind  that  she  would  be  well  content  to  remain  a  player's 
daughter.  Her  condition,  she  imagined,  was  one  that  she  did 
not  desire  to  have  bettered.  Why,  the  air  that  touched  her 
cheek  was  like  velvet ;  and  there  could  be  nothing  in  the  world 
fairer  than  the  pink  and  white  roses  bestarring  the  bushes 
there ;  and  the  very  pulse  of  her  blood  seemed  to  beat  to  an 
unheard  and  rhythmical  and  subtle  tune.  What  was  it  her 
father  had  said?  "I  dai-e  be  sworn  you  are  as  honest  and 
well-minded  as  most,  though  perchance  you  make  less  profes- 
sion of  it. "  She  laughed  to  herself,  with  a  kind  of  pride.  And 
she  was  so  well  content  that  she  wished  she  had  little  Willie 
Hart  here,  that  she  might  put  ber  hand  on  his  shoulder  and 
pet  him,  and  convey  to  liim  some  little  of  that  satisfaction  that 
reigned  within  her  own  bosom.  No  matter;  he  sliould  have 
the  clasp-knife— "TFi^/i  Judith's  Love''' ;  and  right  proud  he 
would  be  of  that,  she  made  sure.  And  so  she  went  idly  on 
her  way,  sometimes  with, 

"  Fair,  fair,  and  twice  so  fair, 
And  fair  as  anr/  may  be," 

coming  uncalled-for  into  her  head;  and  always  with  an  eye  to 
the  various  wild  flowers,  to  see  what  kind  of  a  nosegay  she 
would  be  able  to  gather  on  her  homeward  walk. 

But  by-and-by  her  glances  began  to  go  further  afield.     Mas- 
ter Leofric  Hope,  iu  his  brief  references  to  his  own  habits  and 


172  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

condition  at  the  farm,  had  incidentally  remarked  that  of  all 
his  walks  abroad  he  preferred  the  following  of  the  path  by  the 
river-side;  for  there  he  was  most  secure  from  observation. 
Nay,  he  said  that  sometimes,  after  continued  solitude,  a  long- 
ing possessed  him  to  see  a  town — to  see  a  populated  place  filled 
with  a  fair  number  of  his  fellow-creatures — and  that  he  would 
come  within  sight  of  Stratford  itself  and  have  a  look  at  the 
church,  and  the  church  spire,  and  the  thin  blue  smoke  rising 
over  the  houses.  That,  he  said,  was  safer  for  him  than  com- 
ing over  such  an  exposed  thoroughfare  as  Bardon  Hill ;  and 
then  again,  when  he  was  of  a  mind  to  read — for  this  time  he 
had  brought  one  or  two  books  with  him — he  could  find  many 
a  sheltered  nook  by  the  side  of  the  stream,  where  even  a  pass- 
er-by would  not  suspect  his  presence.  Nor  could  Judith,  on 
this  fresh,  warm,  breezy  morning,  conceal  from  herself  the  true 
object  of  her  coming  forth.  If  she  had  tried  to  deceive  herself, 
the  contents  of  the  blue  velvet  satchel  would  have  borne 
crushing  testimony  against  her.  In  truth  she  was  now  look- 
ing with  some  eagerness  to  find  whether,  on  such  a  pleasant 
morning,  it  was  possible  that  he  could  have  remained  within- 
doors, and  with  the  very  distinct  belief  that  sooner  or  later 
she  would  encounter  him. 

Nor  was  she  mistaken,  though  the  manner  of  the  meeting 
was  unexpected.  The  mastiff  happened  to  have  gone  on  a 
yard  or  two  in  front  of  her,  and  she  was  paying  but  little  at- 
tention to  the  beast,  when  all  of  a  sudden  it  stopped,  became 
rigid,  and  uttered  a  low  growl.  She  sprang  forward  and  seized 
it  by  the  collar.  At  the  same  instant  she  caught  sight  of  some 
one  down  by  the  water's  edge,  where,  but  for  this  occurrence, 
he  would  doubtless  have  escaped  observation.  It  was  Leofric 
Hope,  without  a  doubt ;  for  now  he  was  clambering  up  through 
the  bushes,  and  she  saw  that  he  had  a  small  book  in  his 
hand. 

"My  good  fortune  pursues  me,  fair  Mistress  Judith,"  said  he 
(but  with  a  watchful  eye  on  the  dog) ,  ' '  that  I  should  so  soon 
again  have  an  opportunity  of  meeting  with  you.  But  per- 
chance your  protector  is  jealous  ?     He  likes  not  strangers  V 

"A  lamb,  sir — a  very  lamb!"  Judith  said,  and  she  patted  the 
dog  and  coaxed  him,  and  got  him  into  a  more  friendly — or  at 
least  neutral  and  watchful — frame  of  mind. 


BY   THE  RIVER.  173 

"I  marvel  not  you  have  come  forth  on  such  a  morning," 
said  he,  regarding  the  fresh  color  in  her  face.  ' '  'Tis  a  rare 
morning;  and  'tis  a  rare  chance  for  one  that  is  a  prisoner, 
as  it  were,  that  his  dungeon  is  not  four  walls,  but  the  Avide 
spaces  of  Warwickshire.  Will  you  go  further  ?  May  I  at- 
tend you  ?" 

"Nay,  sir,"  said  she,  "I  but  came  forth  to  look  at  the  coun- 
try, and  see  what  blossoms  I  could  carry  back  to  my  father ;  I 
will  go  as  far  as  the  stile  there,  and  rest  a  few  minutes,  and 
return." 

"  'Tis  like  your  kindness,  sweet  lady,  to  vouchsafe  me  a  mo- 
ment's conversation ;  a  book  is  but  a  dull  companion,"  said  he, 
as  they  walked  along  to  the  stile  that  formed  part  of  a  bound- 
ary hedge.  And  wlien  they  reached  it  she  seated  herself  on 
the  wooden  bar  with  much  content,  and  the  mastiff  lay  down, 
stretching  out  his  paws,  while  the  young  gentleman  stood  idly 
—but  not  carelessly — by.  He  seemed  more  than  ever  anxious 
to  interest  his  fair  neighbor,  and  so  to  beguile  her  into  re- 
maining. 

"  A  dull  companion,"  he  repeated,  "  it  is.  One  would  rath- 
er hear  the  sound  of  one's  voice  occasionally.  When  I  came 
along  here  this  morning  I  should  have  been  right  glad  even  to 
have  had  a  she  shepherd  say  '  Good-morrow'  to  me — " 

"A  what,  good  sir  ?"  she  asked. 

He  laughed. 

"Nay,  'tis  a  book  the  wits  in  London  have  much  merriment 
over  just  now — a  guide-book  for  the  use  of  foreigners  coming 
to  this  country — and  there  be  plenty  of  them  at  present,  in 
the  train  of  the  ambassadors.  Marry,  the  good  man's  Eng- 
lish is  none  of  the  best.  '  For  to  ask  the  Way'  is  a  chapter  of 
the  book ;  and  the  one  traveller  saith  to  the  other,  '  Ask  of 
that  she  shepherd'' — in  truth  the  phrase  hath  been  caught  up 
by  the  town.  But  the  traveller  is  of  a  pleasant  and  courteous 
turn ;  when  that  he  would  go  to  bed,  he  saith  to  the  chamber- 
maid: '  Draw  the  curtains,  and  pin  them  with  a  pin.  My  she 
friend,  kiss  me  once,  and  I  shall  sleep  the  better.  I  thank  you, 
fair  maiden.'  Well,  their  English  may  be  none  of  the  best, 
but  they  have  a  royal  way  with  them,  some  of  those  foi*eigners 
that  come  to  our  conrt.  When  the  Constable  of  Castile  was 
at  the  great  banquet  at  Whitehall— doubtless  you  heard  of 


174  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE, 

it,  sweet  Mistress  Judith  ? — he  rose  and  drank  the  health  of  the 
Queen  from  a  cup  of  agate  of  extraordinary  value,  all  set  with 
diamonds  and  rubies,  and  when  the  King  had  drank  from  the 
same  cup  the  Constable  called  a  servant,  and  desired  that  the 
cup  should  be  placed  on  his  Majesty's  buflFet,  to  remain  there. 
Was't  not  a  royal  gift  ?  And  so  likewise  he  drank  the  health  of 
the  King  from  a  beautiful  dragon-shaped  cup  of  crystal  all 
garnished  with  gold ;  but  he  drank  from  the  cover  only,  for  the 
Queen,  standing  up,  drank  the  pledge  from  the  cup  itself;  and 
then  he  would  have  that  in  turn  transferred  to  her  buffet, 
as  he  had  given  the  other  one  to  the  King." 

"  My  father,"  said  she,  with  much  complacent  good-nature — 
for  she  had  got  into  the  way  of  talking  to  this  young  gentle- 
man with  a  marvellous  absence  of  restraint  or  country  shy- 
ness, ' '  hath  a  tankard  of  great  age  and  value,  and  on  the  silver 
top  of  it  is  a  tribute  engraved  from  many  of  his  friends — truly 
I  would  that  you  could  come  and  see  it,  good  sir — and — and — 
my  father,  too,  he  would  make  you  welcome,  I  doubt  not. 
And  what  book  is  it, "she  continued, with  a  smile,  "that  you 
have  for  companion,  seeing  that  there  be  no  she  shepherd  for 
you  to  converse  withal  ?" 

'"Tis  but  a  dull  affair,  "said  he,  scarce  looking  at  it,  for  Ju- 
dith's eyes  were  more  attractive  reading.  "And  yet  if  the 
book  itself  be  dull,  there  is  that  within  its  boards  that  is  less  so. 
Perchance  you  have  not  heard  of  one  Master  Browne,  a  young 
Devonshire  gentleman,  that  hath  but  late  come  to  London,  and 
that  only  for  a  space,  as  I  reckon  ?" 

"No,  sir,"  she  said,  hesitatingly. 

"The  young  man  hath  made  some  stir  with  his  poems,"  he 
continued,  "though  there  be  none  of  them  in  the  booksellers' 
hands  as  yet.  And  as  it  hath  been  my  good  fortune  to  see 
one  or  two  of  them — marry,  I  am  no  judge,  but  I  would  call 
them  excellent,  and  of  much  modesty  and  grace — I  took  occa- 
sion to  pencil  down  a  few  of  the  lines  inside  the  cover  of  this 
little  book.     May  I  read  them  to  you,  Mistress  Judith  ?" 

"  If  it  please  you,  good  sir." 

He  opened  the  book,  and  she  saw  that  there  were  some  lines 
pencilled  on  the  gray  binding;  but  they  must  have  been  famil- 
iar to  him,  for  he  scarce  took  his  eyes  from  Judith's  face  as  he 
repeated  them. 


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BY  THE  RIVER,  177 

"They  are  a  description,"  said  he,  "of  one  that  must  have 
been  fair  indeed : 

" '  Her  cheeks,  the  wonder  of  what  eye  beheld, 

Begot  betwixt  a  lily  and  a  rose, 
In  gentle  rising  plains  divinely  swelled, 

Where  all  the  graces  and  the  loves  repose. 
Nature  in  this  piece  all  her  works  excelled, 

Yet  showed  herself  impeifect  in  the  close. 
For  she  forgot  {when  she  so  fair  did  raise  her) 
To  give  the  world  a  wit  might  duly  praise  her. 

" '  Wlieii  that  slie  spoke,  as  at  a  voice  from  heaven. 
On  her  sweet  words  all  ears  and  hearts  attended  ; 

Wlicn  that  she  sung,  they  thought  the  planets  seven 

By  her  sweet  voice  might  icell  their  tunes  have  mended ; 

When  she  did  sigh,  all  were  of  joy  bereaven  ; 

And  when  she  smiled,  heaven  had  them  all  befriended : 

If  that  her  voice,  siglis,  smiles,  so  many  thrilled. 

Oh,  had  she  kissed,  how  many  had  she  killed  P  " 

"  'Tis  a  description  of  a  lady  of  the  court?"  Judith  asked, 
timidly. 

"No,  by  heavens,"  he  said,  with  warmth;  "the  bonniest  of 
our  English  roses  are  they  that  grow  in  the  country  air!" — 
and  his  glance  of  admiration  was  so  open  and  undisguised,  and 
the  application  of  his  words  so  obvious,  that  her  eyes  fell,  and 
in  spite  of  herself  the  color  mounted  to  her  cheeks.  In  her  em- 
barrassment she  sought  safety  in  the  blue  velvet  satchel.  She 
had  contemplated  some  other  way  of  introducing  this  latest 
writing  of  her  father's;  but  now  that  had  all  fled  from  her 
brain.  She  knew  that  the  toAvn  gentlemen  were  given  to  flat- 
tery; but  then  she  was  not  accustomed  to  it.  And  she  could 
not  but  swiftly  surmise  that  he  had  written  down  these  lines 
with  the  especial  object  of  addressing  them  to  her  when  he 
should  have  the  chance. 

"Good  sir,"  said  shej  endeavoring  to  hide  this  brief  em- 
barrassment by  assuming  a  merry  air,  "a  fair  exchange,  they 
say,  is  no  robbery.  Methinks  you  will  find  sometliing  here 
that  will  outweigh  good  Master  Browne's  verses — in  bulk,  if 
not  in  merit." 

He  gazed  in  astonishment  at  the  parcel  of  sheets  she  handed 
to  him,  and  he  but  glanced  at  tlie  first  page  when  he  exclaimed, 

"Why,  I  liave  heard  naught  of  this  before." 

"Nay,  sir, "said  she, with  a  calm  smile,  "the  infant  is  but 


178  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

young — ^but  a  few  weeks,  as  I  take  it ;  it  hath  had  but  little 
chance  of  making  a  noise  in  the  world  as  yet.  Will  you  say 
what  you  think  of  it  ?" 

But  now  he  was  busy  reading.  Then  by-and-by  she  recol- 
lected something  of  the  manner  in  which  she  had  meant  to  in- 
troduce the  play. 

"You  see,  sir,  my  father  hath  many  affairs  on  his  hands; 
'tis  not  all  his  time  he  can  give  to  such  things.  And  yet  I 
have  heard  that  they  be  well  spoken  of  in  London — if  not  by 
the  wits,  perchance,  or  by  the  court  ladies,  at  least  by  the  com- 
mon people  and  the  'prentices.  We  in  these  parts  have  but 
little  skill  of  learning ;  but — but  methinks  'tis  a  pretty  story — 
is  it  not,  good  sir  ? — and  perchance  as  interesting  as  a  speech 
from  a  goddess  among  the  clouds  ?" 

"In  truth  it  is  a  rare  invention,"  said  he,  but  absently,  for 
his  whole  and  rajit  attention  was  fixed  on  the  sheets. 

She,  seeing  him  so  absorbed,  did  not  interfere  further.  She 
sat  still  and  content — jDerhaps  with  a  certain  sedate  triumph  in 
her  eyes.  She  listened  to  the  rustling  of  the  elms  overhead, 
and  watched  the  white  clouds  slowly  crossing  the  blue,  and  the 
tawny-hued  river  lazily  and  noiselessly  stealing  by  below  the 
bushes.  The  corn-crake  was  silent  now — there  was  not  even 
that  interruption ;  and  when  tiie  bell  in  the  church  tower  began 
to  toll,  it  was  so  soft  and  faint  and  distant  that  she  thought  it 
most  likely  he  would  not  even  hear  it.  And  at  what  point 
was  he  now  ?  At  the  story  of  how  the  sweet  Miranda  came  to 
grow  up  in  exile  ?  Or  listening  to  Ariel's  song  ?  Or  watch- 
ing the  prince  approach  this  new  wonder  of  the  magic  island  ? 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  triumph.      "Ben  Jonson !"  she  had  said. 

But  suddenly  he  closed  the  sheets  together. 

"  It  were  unmannei'ly  so  to  keep  you  waiting,"  said  he. 

"Nay,  heed  not  that,  good  sir,"  she  said,  instantly.  "I  pray 
you  go  on  with  the  reading.  How  like  you  it  ?  'Tis  a  pretty 
story,  methinks ;  but  my  father  hath  been  so  busy  of  late — what 
with  acres,  and  tithes,  and  sheep,  and  malt,  and  the  like— that 
perchance  he  hath  not  given  all  his  mind  to  it." 

"It  is  not  for  one  such  as  I,  fair  Mistress  Judith,"  said  he, 
with  much  modesty,  "to  play  the  critic  when  it  is  your  fa- 
ther's writing  that  comes  forward.  Beshrew  ine,  there  be 
plenty  of  that  ti'ade  in  London,  and  chiefly  the  feeble  folk 


BY  THE  RIVER.  179 

that  he  hath  driven  from  our  stage.  No,  sweet  lady;  rather 
consider  me  one  of  those  that  crowd  to  see  each  new  piece  of 
his,  and  are  right  thankful  for  aught  he  pleaseth  to  give  us." 

"Is  that  so  ?"  said  she;  and  she  regarded  him  with  much  fa- 
vor, which  he  was  not  slow  to  perceive. 

"Why,"  said  he,  boldly,  "what  needs  your  father  to  heed  if 
some  worshipful  Master  Scoloker  be  of  opinion  that  the  play 
of  the  Prince  Hamlet  belongeth  to  the  vulgar  sort,  and  that 
the  prince  was  but  moon-sick;  or  that  some  one  like  Master 
Greene— God  rest  his  soul,  wherever  it  be !— should  call  him 
an  upstart  crow,  and  a  Johannes  factotum,  and  the  like  ?  'Tis 
what  the  people  of  England  think  that  is  of  import;  and  right 
sure  am  I  what  they  would  say— that  there  is  no  greater  winter 
than  your  father  now  living  in  the  land." 

"Ah,  think  you  so?"  she  said,  quickly,  and  her  face  grew 
radiant,  as  it  were,  and  her  eyes  were  filled  with  gratitude. 

"This  Master  Greene,"  he  continued,  "was  ever  gibing  at 
the  players,  as  I  have  heard,  and  bidding  them  be  more  hum- 
ble, for  that  their  labor  was  but  mechanical,  and  them  attract- 
ing notice  through  wearing  borrowed  plumes.  Nay,  he  would 
have  it  that  your  father  was  no  more  than  that— poor  man, 
he  lived  but  a  sorry  life,  and  'twere  ill  done  to  cherish  anger 
against  him ;  but  I  remember  to  have  seen  the  apology  that 
he  that  published  the  book  made  thereafter  to  your  father- 
in  good  truth  it  was  fitting  and  right  that  it  should  be  printed 
and  given  to  the  world ;  and  though  I  forget  the  terms  of  it, 
'twas  in 'fair  praise  of  Master  William  Shakespeare's  gentle 
demeanor,  and  his  uprightness  of  conduct,  and  the  gvnco  of 
his  wit." 

"Could  you  get  that  for  me,  good  sir?"  said  she,  eagerly. 
"  Is't  possible  that  I  could  get  it  ?" 

And  then  she  stopped  in  some  embarrassment,  for  she  re- 
membered that  it  was  not  becoming  she  should  ask  this  stranger 
for  a  gift.  ' '  Nay,  sir,  'twould  be  of  little  use  to  me,  that  have 
no  skill  of  reading." 

"But  I  pray  you,  sweet  Mistress  Judith,  to  permit  me  to 
bring  you  the  book ;  'twill  be  something,  at  least,  for  you  to 
keep  and  sliow  to  your  friends — " 

"  If  I  might  show  it  to  Prudence  Shawe,  I  could  return  it  to 
you, good  sir,"  said  she.     And  tlien  slic  added,  "Not  that  she— 


180  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

no,  nor  any  one  in  Stratford  town— would  need  any  such  testi- 
mony to  my  father's  qualities,  that  are  known  to  all." 

"At  least  they  seem  to  have  won  him  the  love  and  loyalty 
of  his  daughter,"  said  he,  gallantly;  "and  they  know  most 
about  a  man  who  live  nearest  him.  Nay,  hut  I  will  beg  you  to 
accept  the  book  from  me  when  I  can  with  safety  get  to  London 
again ;  'twill  be  a  charge  I  am  not  likely  to  forget.  And  in 
return,  fair  Mistress  Judith,  I  would  take  of  you  another  favor, 
and  a  greater." 

"  In  what  manner,  gentle  sir  ?" 

"I  have  but  glanced  over  this  writing,  for  fear  of  detaining 
you,  and  but  half  know  the  value  of  it,"  said  he.  "I  pray 
you  let  me  have  it  with  me  to  my  lodging  for  an  hour  or  two, 
that  I  may  do  it  justice.  When  one  hath  such  a  chance  come 
to  him,  'tis  not  to  be  lightly  treated ;  and  I  would  give  time  and 
quiet  to  the  making  out  the  beauties  of  your  father's  latest 
woi'k." 

She  was  at  first  somewhat  startled  by  this  proposal,  and  al- 
most involuntarily  was  for  putting  forth  her  hand  to  receive 
the  sheets  again  into  safe-keeping ;  but  then  she  asked  herself 
what  harm  there  could  be  in  acceding  to  his  request.  She 
was  eagerly  anxious  that  he  should  understand  how  her  father 
— even  amidst  those  multifarious  occupations  that  were  entailed 
on  him  by  his  prominent  position  in  the  town — could,  when  he 
chose,  sit  down  and  write  a  tale  far  exceeding  in  beauty  and  in- 
terest any  of  the  mummeries  that  the  court  people  seemed  to 
talk  about.  Why  should  not  he  have  a  few  hours'  time  to 
study  this  fragment  withal  ?  Her  father  was  gone  to  Warwick 
for  the  day.  Nay,  more,  she  had  taken  so  small  a  portion  of 
what  had  been  cast  aside  that  she  knew  the  absence  of  it  would 
not  be  noticed,  however  long  it  might  be  kept.  And  then  this 
young  gentleman,  who  was  so  civil  and  courteous,  and  who 
spoke  so  well  of  her  father,  was  alone,  and  to  be  pitied  for 
that  he  had  so  few  means  of  beguiling  the  tedium  of  his 
hiding. 

"In  the  afternoon,"  said  he,  seeing  that  she  hesitated,  "I 
could  with  safety  leave  it  at  your  grandmother's  cottage,  and 
then,  perchance,  you  might  send  some  one  for  it.  Nay,  be- 
lieve me,  sweet  Mistress  Judith,  I  know  the  value  of  that  I  ask ; 
but  I  would  fain  do  justice  to  such  a  treasure." 


BY  THE  RIVER.  181 

"You  would  not  fail  me,  sir,  in  leaving  it  at  the  cottage  ?" 
said  she. 

"You  do  me  wrong,  Mistress  Judith,  to  doubt — in  good  sooth 
you  do.     If  you  can  find  a  trusty  messenger — " 

"Nay,  but  I  will  come  for  it  myself,  good  sir,  and  explain 
to  my  grandmother  the  nature  of  the  thing,  lest  she  suspect 
me  of  meddling  with  darker  plots.  Let  it  be  so,  then,  good 
sir,  for  noAV  I  must  get  me  back  to  the  town.  I  pray  you  for- 
get not  to  leave  the  package ;  and  so — farewell !" 

"But  my  thanks  to  you,  dear  lady — " 

"Nay,  sir,"  said  she,  with  a  bright  look  of  her  eyes,  "be- 
think you  you  have  not  yet  faii'ly  made  out  the  matter.  Tar- 
ry till  you  have  seen  whether  these  sheets  be  worth  the  trouble 
— whether  they  remind  you  in  aught  of  the  work  of  your 
friend  Master  Jonson — and  then  your  thanks  will  be  welcome. 
Give  ye  good-day,  gentle  sir." 

There  was  no  thought  in  her  mind  that  she  had  done  any- 
thing imprudent  in  trusting  him  with  this  portion  of  the  play 
for  the  matter  of  an  hour  or  two ;  it  was  but  a  small  equiva- 
lent, she  recollected,  for  his  promise  to  bring  her  fi'om  London 
the  retractation  or  apology  of  one  of  those  who  had  railed  at 
her  father,  or  abetted  in  that,  and  found  himself  constrained  by 
his  conscience  to  make  amends.  And  now  it  occurred  to  her 
that  it  would  look  ill  if,  having  come  out  to  gather  some  wild 
flowers  for  the  little  table  in  the  summer-house,  she  returned 
with  empty  hands ;  so,  as  she  proceeded  to  walk  leisurely  along 
the  winding  path  leading  back  to  the  town,  she  kept  picking 
here  and  there  such  blossoms  as  came  within  her  reacli.  If 
the  nosegay  promised  to  be  somewhat  large  and  straggling,  at 
least  it  would  be  sweet-scented,  and  she  felt  pretty  sure  that 
her  father  would  be  well  content  with  it.  At  first  she  was  si- 
lent, however ;  her  wonted  singing  was  abandoned ;  perchance 
she  was  trying  to  recall  something  of  the  lines  that  Master  Leo- 
fric  Hope  had  repeated  to  her  with  so  marked  an  emphasis. 

"And  what  said  he  of  our  English  roses?"  she  asked  her- 
self, with  some  faint  color  coming  into  her  face  at  the  mere 
thought  of  it. 

But  then  she  forcibly  dismissed  these  recollections,  feeling 
that  that  was  due  to  her  own  modesty,  and  busied  herself  with 
her  blossoms  and  sprays ;  and  pi'esently,  as  she  set  out  in  good 


382  JUDITH  SHAKESPEAEE. 

earnest  for  tlie  town,  she  strove  to  convince  herself  that  there 
was  nothing-  more  serious  in  her  brain  than  the  tune  of  "  Green- 
sleeves"  : 

"  Green-sleeves,  now  farewell,  adieu  ; 
God  I  pray  to  prosper  thee  ; 
For  I  am  still  thy  lover  true — 
Come  once  again  and  love  meP^ 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

WILD  WORDS. 


Her  light-heartedness  did  not  last  long.  In  the  wide  clear 
landscape  a  human  figure  suddenly  appeared,  and  the  briefest 
turn  of  her  head  showed  her  that  Tom  Quiney  was  rapidly 
coming  toward  her  across  the  fields.  For  a  second  her  heart 
stood  still.  ,  Had  he  been  riding  home  from  Ludington?  Or 
from  Bidford  ?  Was  it  possible  that  he  had  come  over  Bardon 
Hill,  and  from  that  height  espied  the  two  down  by  the  river  ? 
She  could  not  even  tell  whether  that  was  possible,  or  what  he 
had  done  with  his  horse,  or  why  he  had  not  interfered  sooner,  if 
he  was  bent  on  interfering.  But  she  had  an  alarmed  impres- 
sion that  this  rapid  approach  of  his  boded  trouble,  and  she  had 
not  long  to  wait  before  that  fear  was  confirmed. 

"  Judith,  who  is  that  man  ?"  he  demanded,  with  a  fury  that 
was  but  half  held  in. 

She  turned  and  faced  him. 

"I  knew  not,"  she  said,  coldly  and  slowly,  "that  we  were 
on  a  speaking  jilatform." 

"'Tis  no  time  to  bandy  words,"  said  he;  and  his  face  was 
pale,  for  he  was  evidently  striving  to  control  the  passion  with 
which  his  whole  figure  seemed  to  quiver  from  head  to  heel. 
"Who  is  that  man?  I  ask.  Who  is  he,  that  you  come  here 
to  seek  him,  and  alone  ?" 

"I  know  not  by  what  right  you  put  such  questions  to  me," 
she  said ;  but  she  was  somewhat  frightened. 

' '  By  what  right  ?  And  you  have  no  regard,  then,  for  your 
good  name  ?" 

There  was  a  flash  in  her  eyes.  She  had  been  afraid :  she  was 
no  longer  afraid. 


WILD  WORDS.  183 

"My  good  name ?"  she  repeated.  "I  thank  God  'tis  in  none 
of  your  keeping !" 

In  his  madness  he  caught  her  by  the  wrist. 

"Youslialltellme— " 

"Unhand  me,  sir!"  she  exclaimed;  and  she  threw  off  his 
grasp,  while  her  cheeks  burned  with  humiliation. 

"Nay,  I  quarrel  not  with  women,"  said  he.  "  I  crave  your 
pardon.  But,  by  God,  I  will  get  to  know  that  man's  name  and 
purpose  here  if  I  rive  it  from  his  body !" 

So  he  strode  off  in  the  direction  that  Leofric  Hope  had 
taken;  and  for  a  moment  she  stood  quite  terror-stricken  and 
helpless,  scarcely  daring  to  think  of  what  might  happen.  A 
murder  on  this  fair  morning  ?  This  young  fellow,  that  was 
quite  beside  himself  in  his  passion  of  jealous  anger,  was  famed 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  Warwickshire  for  his 
wrestling  prowess.  And  the  other  —  would  he  brook  high 
words  ?  These  things  flashed  across  her  mind  in  one  bewilder- 
ing instant;  and  in  her  alarm  she  forgot  all  about  her  pride. 
She  called  to  him, 

"I  pray  you — stay !" 

He  turned  and  regarded  her. 

"Stay," said  she,  with  her  face  afire.  "I — I  will  tell  you 
what  I  know  of  him — if  you  will  have  it  so." 

He  approached  her  with  seeming  reluctance,  and  with  anger 
and  suspicion  in  his  lowering  look.     He  was  silent,  too. 

"Indeed,  there  is  no  harm,"  said  she  (and  still  with  her  face 
showing  her  mortification  that  she  was  thus  forced  to  defend 
herself).  "  'Tis  a  young  gentleman  that  is  in  some  trouble — 
his  lodging  near  Bidford  is  also  a  hiding,  as  it  were — and — and 
I  know  but  little  of  him  beyond  his  name,  and  that  he  is  fa- 
miliar with  many  of  my  father's  friends  in  London." 

"And  how  comes  it  that  you  seek  him  out  here  alone?"  said 
he.      "  That  is  a  becoming  and  maidenly  tiling !" 

"I  promised  you  I  would  tell  you  what  I  know  of  the  young 
gentleman,"  said  she,  with  scornful  lips.  "  I  did  not  promise 
to  stand  still  and  suffer  your  insolence." 

"Insolence!"  he  exclaimed,  as  if  her  audacity  bewildered 
him. 

"How  know  you  that  I  sought  liini  out!"  she  said,  indig- 
nantly.     "May  not  one   walk  forth  of  a  summer  morning 


184  JUDITH   SHAKESPEARE. 

without  being  followed  by  suspicious  eyes — I  warrant  me,  eyes 
that  are  only  too  glad  to  suspect !  To  think  evil  is  an  easy 
thing,  it  seems,  with  many :  I  wonder,  sir,  you  are  not  ashamed." 

"You  brave  it  out  well,"  said  he,  sullenly;  but  it  was  evi- 
dent that  her  courage  had  impressed  him,  if  it  still  left  him  an- 
gered and  susjoicious. 

And  then  he  asked : 

"How  comes  it  that  none  of  your  friends  or  your  family 
know  ought  of  this  stranger  ?" 

"I  marvel  you  should  speak  of  my  family,"  she  retorted. 
"I  had  thought  you  were  inclined  to  remain  in  ignorance  of 
them  of  late.  But  had  you  asked  of  Prudence  Shawe  she 
might  have  told  you  something  of  this  young  gentleman ;  or 
had  you  thought  fit  to  call  in  at  my  grandmother's  cottage,  you 
might  j)erchance  have  found  him  seated  there,  and  a  welcome 
guest  at  her  board.  Marry,  'tis  easier  far  to  keep  aloof  and  to 
think  evil,  as  one  may  see." 

And  then  she  added : 

"Well,  sir,  are  you  satisfied  ?  May  I  go  home  without  far- 
ther threats  ?" 

"I  threatened  you  not,  Judith," said  he,  rather  more  hum- 
bly. "I  would  have  my  threats  kept  for  those  that  would 
harm  you." 

"I  know  of  none  such,"  she  said,  distinctly.  "And  as  for 
this  young  gentleman — that  is  in  misfortune — such  as  might 
happen  to  any  one — and  not  only  in  hiding,  but  having  in- 
trusted his  secret  to  one  or  two  of  us  that  pity  him  and  see  no 
harm  in  him — I  say  it  were  a  cruel  and  unmanly  thing  to  spy 
out  his  concealment,  or  to  spread  the  rumor  of  his  being  in 
the  neighborhood." 

' '  Nay,  you  need  not  fear  that  of  me,  Judith, "  said  he.  ' '  Man 
to  man  is  my  way,  when  there  is  occasion.  But  can  you  mar- 
vel if  I  would  have  you  for  your  own  sake  avoid  any  further 
meetings  with  this  stranger  ?  If  he  be  in  hiding,  let  him  re- 
main there,  in  God's  name;  I  for  one  will  set  no  beagles  to 
hunt  him  out.  But  as  for  you,  I  would  have  you  meddle  with 
no  such  dangerous  traps." 

"Good  sii',"  said  slie,  "I  have  my  conduct  in  my  own  keep- 
ing, and  can  answer  to  those  that  have  the  guardianship  of  me.'' 

He  did  not  reply  to  this  rebuke.     He  said: 


WILD  WORDS.  185 

"May  I  walk  back  to  the  town  with  you,  Judith  V 

"You  forget,"  she  said,  coldly,  "that  if  we  Avere  seen  to- 
gether the  gossips  might  say  I  had  come  out  hither  to  seek  you, 
and  alone." 

But  he  paid  no  heed  to  this  taunt. 

"I  care  not,"  said  he,  with  an  affectation  of  indifference, 
"what  the  gossips  in  Stratford  have  to  talk  over.  Stratford 
and  I  are  soon  to  part." 

"What  say  you?"  said  she,  quickly — and  they  were  walk- 
ing on  together  now,  the  Don  leisurely  following  at  their  heels. 

"Nay,  His  nothing,"  said  he,  carelessly;  "there  are  wider 
lands  beyond  the  seas,  where  a  man  can  fight  for  his  own  and 
hold  it."    • 

"  And  you  ?"  she  said.  "  You  hav^e  it  in  your  mind  to  leave 
the  country  ?" 

"Marry,  that  have  I!"  said  he,  gayly.  "My  good  friend 
Daniel  Hutt  hath  gotten  together  a  rare  regiment,  and  I  doubt 
not  I  shall  be  one  of  the  captains  of  them  ere  many  years  be 
over." 

Her  eyes  were  downcast,  and  he  could  not  see  what  impres- 
sion this  piece  of  news  had  made  upon  her — if,  indeed,  he 
cared  to  look.     They  walked  for  some  time  in  silence. 

"It  is  no  light  matter,"  said  she  at  length,  and  in  rather  a 
low  voice,  "to  leave  one's  native  land." 

"As  for  that,"  said  he,  "the  land  will  soon  be  not  worth 
the  living  in.  Why,  in  former  times,  men  spoke  of  the  merry 
world  of  England.  A  mei'ry  woi'ld  ? — I  trow  the  canting 
rogues  of  preachers  have  left  but  little  merriment  in  it;  and 
now  they  would  seek  to  have  all  in  their  power,  and  to  flood 
the  land  with  their  whining  and  psalra-singing,  till  we  shall 
have  no  England  left  us,  but  only  a  vast  conventicle.  Think 
you  that  your  father  hath  any  sympathy  with  these  ?  I  tell 
you  no;  I  take  it  he  is  an  Englishman,  and  not  a  conventicle- 
man.  'Tis  no  longer  the  England  of  our  forefathers  when 
men  may  neither  hawk  nor  hunt,  and  women  are  doomed  to 
perdition  for  worshipping  the  false  idol  starch,  and  the  very 
children  be  called  in  from  their  games  of  a  Sunday  afternoon. 
God-a-mercy,  I  have  had  enough  of  Brother  Patience  -  in-suffer- 
ing, and  his  douiiniou  of  grace!" 

This  seemed  to  Judith  a  strange  reason  for  his  going  away, 

8 


186  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

for  he  had  never  professed  any  strong  bias  one  way  or  the  other 
in  these  religious  dissensions;  his  cliief  concern,  like  that  of 
most  of  the  young  men  in  Stratford,  lying  rather  in  the  direc- 
tion of  butt -shooting,  or  wrestling,  or  having  a  I'omp  with 
some  of  the  wenches  to  the  tune  of  "  Packington's  Pound." 

"Nay,  as  I  hear,"  said  he,  "there  be  some  of  them  in  such 
discontent  with  the  King  and  the  Parliament  that  they  even 
talk  of  transplanting  themselves  beyond  seas,  like  those  that 
went  to  Holland:  'twelve  a  goodly  riddance  if  the  whole  gang 
of  the  sour- faced  hypocrites  went,  and  left  to  us  our  own  Eng- 
land. And  a  fair  beginning  for  the  new  country  across  the 
Atlantic — half  of  them  these  Puritanical  rogues,  with  their 
fastings  and  preachments;  and  the  other  half  the  •constable's 
brats  and  broken  men  that  such  as  Hutt  are  drafting  out :  a 
right  good  beginning,  if  they  but  keej)  from  seizing  each  oth- 
er by  the  throat  in  the  end !  No  matter :  we  should  have  our 
England  pvu'ged  of  the  double  scum!" 

"  But/' said  Judith,  timidly,  "methought  you  said  you  were 
going  out  with  these  same  desperate  men  ?" 

"I  can  take  my  life  in  my  hand  as  well  as  another,"  said  he, 
gloomily.  And  then  he  added :  ' '  They  be  none  so  desperate, 
after  all.  Broken  men  there  may  be  amongst  them,  and 
many  against  whom  fortune  would  seem  to  have  a  spite :  per- 
chance their  affairs  may  mend  in  the  new  country." 

"But  your  affairs  are  prosperous,"  Judith  said — though  she 
never  once  regarded  him.  "Why  should  you  link  yourself 
with  such  men  as  these  ?" 

"One  must  forth  to  see  the  world,"  said  he ;  and  he  went  on 
to  speak  in  a  gay  and  reckless  fashion  of  the  life  that  lay  before 
him,  and  of  its  possible  adventures  and  hazards  and  prizes. 
"And  what,"  said  he,  "if  one  were  to  have  good  fortune  in 
that  far  country,  and  become  rich  in  land,  and  have  good  store 
of  corn  and  fields  of  tobacco ;  what  if  one  were  to  come  back 
in  twenty  years'  time  to  this  same  town  of  Sti'atford,  and  set 
up  for  the  trade  of  gentleman  ?" 

' '  Twenty  years  ?"  said  she,  rather  breathlessly.  ' '  'Tis  a  long 
time;  you  will  find  changes." 

' '  None  that  would  matter  much,  methinks,"  said  he,  indiffer- 
ently. 

"There  be  those  that  will  be  sorry  for  your  going  away," 


WILD  WORDS.  187 

she  ventured  to  say — and  she  forced  herself  to  think  only  of 
Prudence  Shawe. 

"Not  one  that  will  care  a  cracked  three-farthings !"  was  the 
answer. 

"You  do  ill  to  say  so — indeed  you  do !"  said  she,  with  just  a 
touch  of  warmth  in  her  tone.  ' '  You  have  many  friends ;  you 
serve  them  ill  to  say  they  would  not  heed  your  going." 

"Friends  ?"  said  he.  "  Yes,  they  will  miss  me  at  the  shovel- 
board,  or  when  there  is  one  short  at  the  catches." 

"There  be  others  than  those,"  said  she,  with  some  little  hes- 
itation. 

"  Who,  then  ?"  said  he. 

"You  should  know  yourself,"  she  answered.  "Think  you 
that  Prudence,  for  one,  will  be  careless  as  to  your  leaving  the 
country  ?" 

' '  Prudence  ?"  said  he,  and  he  darted  a  quick  glance  at  her. 
"  Nay,  I  confess  me  wrong,  then ;  for  there  is  one  that  hath  a 
gentle  heart,  and  is  full  of  kindness." 

"Right  well  I  know  that— for  who  should  know  better  than 
I  ?"  said  Judith.  "As  true  a  heart  as  any  in  Christendom,  and 
a  prize  for  him  that  wins  it,  I  warrant  you.  If  it  be  not  won 
already,"  she  added,  quickly.      "  As  to  that,  I  know  not." 

They  were  now  nearing  the  town — they  could  hear  the  dull 
sound  of  the  mill,  and  before  them  was  the  church  spire  among 
the  trees,  and  beyond  that  the  gray  and  red  huddled  mass  of 
houses,  barns,  and  orchards. 

"And  when  think  you  of  going?"  she  said,  after  a  while. 

"  I  know  not,  and  I  care  not,"  said  he,  absently.  "When  I 
spoke  of  my  acquaintances  being  indiflPerent  as  to  what  might 
befall  me,  I  did  them  wrong,  for  in  truth  there  be  none  of  them 
as  indifPerent  as  I  am  myself." 

"  'Tis  not  a  hopeful  mood,"  said  she,  "to  begin  the  making 
of  one's  fortunes  in  a  new  country  withal.  I  pray  you,  what 
ails  this  town  of  Stratford,  that  you  are  not  content?" 

"It  boots  not  to  say,  since  I  am  leaving  it,"  he  answered. 
"Perchance  in  times  to  come,  when  I  am  able  to  return  to  it, 
I  shall  be  better  content.     And  you  ?" 

"And  I?"  she  repeated,  with  some  surprise. 

"Nay,  you  will  be  content  enough,"  said  he,  somewhat  bit- 
terly.     "Mother  Church  will  have  a  care  of  you.     You  will  be 


188  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

in  the  fold  by  then.  The  faithful  shepherd  will  have  a  charge 
over  you,  to  keep  you  from  communication  with  the  children 
of  anger  and  the  devil,  that  rage  without  like  lions  seeking  to 
destroy." 

"I  know  not  what  you  mean,"  said  she,  with  a  hot  face. 

"Right  well  you  know,"  said  he,  coolly;  hut  there  was  an 
angry  resentment  running  through  his  affected  disdain  as  he 
went  on :  "  There  be  those  that  protest,  and  go  foi'th.  from  the 
Church.  And  tliere  be  those  that  protest,  and  remain  witliin, 
eating  the  fat  things,  and  well  content  Avith  the  milk  and  the 
honey,  and  their  stores  of  corn  and  oil.  Marry,  you  will  be 
well  provided  for-ythe  riches  of  the  next  world  laid  up  in 
waiting  for  you,  and  a  goodly  share  of  the  things  of  this  world 
to  beguile  the  time  withal.  Nay,  I  marvel  not ;  'tis  the  wisdom 
of  the  serpent  along  with  the  innocence  of  the  dove.  What 
matters  the  surplice,  the  cross  in  baptism,  and  the  other  relics 
of  popery,  if  conformity  will  keep  the  larder  full  ?  Better  that 
than  starvation  in  Holland,  or  seeking  a  home  beyond  the 
Atlantic,  where,  belike,  the  children  of  the  devil  might  i^rove 
overrude  companions.  I  marvel  not,  I ;  'tis  a  foolish  bird  that 
forsakes  a  warm  nest." 

And  now  she  well  knew  against  whom  his  bitter  speech  was 
levelled;  and  some  recollection  of  the  slight  he  had  put  upon 
her  in  the  church-yard  came  into  her  mind,  with  the  memory 
that  it  had  never  been  atoned  for.  And  she  was  astounded 
that  he  had  the  audacity  to  walk  with  her  now  and  here,  talk- 
ing as  if  he  were  the  in  juiced  one.  The  sudden  qualm  that  had 
filled  her  heart  when  he  spoke  of  leaving  the  country  was  put 
aside;  the  kindly  reference  to  Prudence  was  forgotten;  she 
only  knew  that  this  sarcasm  of  his  was  very  much  out  of  place, 
and  that  this  was  far  from  being  the  tone  in  which  he  had  any 
right  to  address  her. 

"I  know  not,"  said  she,  stiffly,  "  what  quarrel  you  may  have 
with  this  or  that  section  of  the  Church ;  but  it  concerns  me  not. 
I  pray  you  attack  those  who  are  better  able  to  defend  them- 
selves than  I  am,  or  care  to  be.  Methinks  your  studies  in  that 
line  have  come  somewhat  late." 

'"Tis  no  greater  marvel,"  said  he, "than  that  you  should 
have  joined  yourself  to  the  assembly  of  the  saints:  it  was  not 
always  so  with  you." 


WILD  WORDS.  189 

"I  ?"  she  said;  but  her  cheeks  were  hurning-;  for  well  she 
knew  that  he  referred  to  liis  having  seen  her  with  the  parson 
on  that  Sunday  morning,  and  she  was  far  too  pi'oud  to  defend 
herself.  ' '  Heaven  help  me  now,  but  I  thought  I  was  mistress 
of  my  own  actions !" 

"In  truth  you  are,  Mistress  Judith, "said  he,  humbly  (and 
this  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  ever  addressed  her  so,  and  it 
startled  her,  for  it  seemed  to  suggest  a  final  separation  between 
them — something  as  wide  and  irrevocable  as  that  twenty  years 
of  absence  beyond  the  seas).  And  then  he  said,  "  I  crave  your 
pardon  if  I  have  said  ought  to  offend  you ;  and  would  take  my 
leave." 

"  God  be  wi'  you,"  said  she,  civilly;  and  then  he  left,  strik- 
ing across  the  meadows  toward  the  Bidford  road,  and,  as  she 
guessed,  pi'obably  going  to  seek  his  horse  from  whomsoever  he 
had  left  it  with. 

And  as  she  went  on,  and  into  the  town,  she  was  wondering 
what  Prudence  had  said  to  him  that  should  so  suddenly  drive 
him  to  think  of  quitting  the  country.  All  had  seemed  going 
well.  As  for  Master  Leof ric  Hope,  his  secx-et  was  safe ;  this 
late  companion  of  hers  seemed  to  have  forgotten  him  altogeth- 
er in  his  anger  against  the  good  parson.  And  then  she  grew  to 
think  of  the  far  land  across  the  ocean,  that  she  had  heard  vague- 
ly of  from  time  to  time ;  and  to  think  how  twenty  years  could 
be  spent  there;  and  what  Sti'atford  would  be  like  when  that 
long  space  was  over. 

"Twenty  years,"  she  said  to  herself,  with  a  kind  of  sigh, 
"There  ai'e  many  things  will  be  settled^ere  that  time  be  pass- 
ed, for  good  or  ill." 


190  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

A  CONJECTURE. 

When  she  got  back  to  New  Place  slie  found  the  house  in 
considerable  commotion.  It  appeared  that  the  famous  divine 
Master  Elihu  Izod  had  just  come  into  the  town,  being  on  his 
way  toward  Leicestershire,  and  that  he  had  been  brought  by  the 
gentleman  whose  guest  he  was  to  pay  a  visit  to  Judith's  mo- 
ther. Judith  had  remarked  ere  now  that  the  preachers  and 
other  godly  persons  who  thus  honored  the  New  Place  generally 
made  their  appearance  a  trifling  time  before  the  hour  of  dinner ; 
and  now,  as  she  reached  the  house,  she  was  not  surprised  to 
find  that  Prudence  had  been  called  in  to  entertain  the  two 
visitors — who  were  at  present  in  the  garden — while  within- 
doors her  mother  and  the  maids  were  hastily  making  such 
preparations  as  were  possible.  To  this  latter  work  she  quickly 
lent  a  helping  hand ;  and  in  due  course  of  time  the  board  was 
spread  with  a  copious  and  substantial  repast,  not  forgetting  an 
ample  supply  of  wine  and  ale  for  those  that  were  that  way  in- 
clined. Then  the  two  gentlemen  were  called  in.  Prudence  was 
easily  persuaded  to  stay,  and,  after  a  lengthened  grace,  the 
good  preacher  fell  to,  seasoning  his  food  with  much  pious  con- 
versation. 

At  such  times  Judith  had  abundant  opportunities  for  reverie, 
and  for  a  general  review  of  the  situation  of  her  own  affairs. 
In  fact,  on  this  occasion  she  seemed  in  a  manner  to  be  debarred 
from  participation  in  these  informal  services  at  the  very  outset. 
Master  Izod,  who  was  a  tall,  thin,  dark,  melancholy-visaged 
man — unlike  his  companion,  Godfrey  Buller,  of  the  Leas,  near 
to  Hinckley,  who,  on  the  contrary,  was  a  stout,  yeoman-like 
person,  whose  small  gray  absent  eyes  remained  motionless  and 
vacant  in  the  great  breadth  of  his  rubicund  face — had  taken  for 
his  text,  as  it  were,  a  list  he  had  found  somewhere  or  other  of 
those  characters  that  were  entitled  to  command  the  admiration 
and  respect  of  all  good  people.  These  were :  a  young  saint ; 
an  old  martyr ;  a  religious  soldier ;  a  conscionable  statesman; 


A  CONJECTURE.  191 

a  great  man  courteous;  a  learned  man  humble;  a  silent  wo- 
man ;  a  merry  companion  without  vanity  ;  a  friend  not  changed 
with  honor;  a  sick  man  cheerful;  a  soul  departing  with  com- 
fort and  assurance.     And  as  Judith  did  not  make  bold  to  claim 
to  be  any  one  of  these— nor,  indeed,  to  have  any  such  merits  or 
excellences  as  would  extort  the  appi'oval  of  the  membership 
of  the  saints— she  gradually  fell  away  from  listening;  and  her 
mind  was  busy  with  other  things;  and  her  imagination,  which 
was  vivid  enough,  intent  upon  other  scenes.     One  thing  that 
had  struck  her  the  moment  she  had  returned  was  that  Prudence 
seemed  in  an  unusually  cheerful  mood.      Of  course  the  arrival 
of  two  visitors  was  an  event  in  that  quiet  life  of  theirs;  and 
no  doubt  Prudence  was  glad  to  be  appointed  to  entertain  the 
strangers — one  of  them,  moreover,  being  of  such  great  fame. 
But  so  pleased  was  she,  and  so  cheerful  in  her  manner,  that 
Judith  was  straightway  convinced  there  had  been  no  quari'el 
between  her  and  Tom  Quiney.     Nay,  when  was  there  time  for 
that  ?     He  could  scarcely  have  seen  her  that  morning ;  while 
the  night  before  there  had  certainly  been  no  mention  of  his 
projected  migration  to  America,  else  Prudence  would  have  said 
as  much.     What,  then,  had  so  suddenly  driven  him  to  the 
conclusion  that  England  was  no  longer  a  land  fit  to  live  in  ? 
And  why  had  lie  paid  Prudence  such  marked  attention — why 
had  he  presented  lier  with  the  spaniel-gentle  and  offered  her 
the  emblazoned  missal — one  evening,  only  to  resolve  the  next 
morning  that  he  must  needs  leave  the  country  ?     Nay,  why  had 
he  so  unexpectedly  broken  the  scornful  silence  with  which  he 
had  recently  treated  herself  ?     He  had  given  her  to  understand 
that,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  she  did  not  exist.     He  seem- 
ed determined  to  ignore  her  presence.     And  yet  she  could  not 
but  remember  that,  if  this  contemptuous  silence  on  his  part 
was  broken  by  the  amazement  of  his  seeing  her  in  the  company 
of  a  stranger,  his  suspicions  in  that  direction  were  very  speed- 
ily disarmed.    A  few  words,  and  they  fled.     It  was  his  far  more 
deadly  jealousy  of  the  par.son  that  remained;  and  was  like  to 
remain,  for  she  certainly  would  not  stoop  to  explain  that  the 
meeting  in  the  church-yard  was  quite  accidental.     But  why 
should  he  trouble  his  head  about  either  her  or  the  parson  ? 
Had   he  not  betaken  himself  elsewhere- and  that  with  her 
right  good  will  ?     Nay,  on  his  own  confession  he  had  discover- 


192  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

ed  how  kind  and  gentle  Prudence  was :  there  was  a  fit  mate  for 
him — one  to  temper  the  wildness  and  hot-headedness  of  his 
youth.  Judith  liad  never  seen  the  sea,  and  tliercfore  had  nev- 
er seen  moonlight  on  the  sea;  but  the  nearest  to  that  she  could 
go,  in  thinking  of  what  Prudence's  nature  was  like,  in  its  rest- 
ful and  sweet  and  serious  beauty,  was  the  moonlight  she  had 
seen  on  the  river  Avon  in  the  calm  of  a  summer's  night,  the 
water  unbroken  by  a  ripple,  and  not  a  whisper  among  the 
reeds.    Could  he  not  perceive  that  too,  and  understand  ? 

As  for  herself,  she  knew  that  she  could  at  any  moment  cut 
the  knot  of  any  complications  that  might  arise  by  allowing 
Master  Walter  to  talk  her  over  into  marrying  him.  Her  fa- 
ther had  assured  her  that  the  clear-headed  and  energetic  young 
parson  was  quite  equal  to  that.  Well,  it  was  about  time  she 
should  abandon  the  frivolities  and  coquetries  of  her  youth; 
and  her  yielding  would  please  many  good  jjeople,  especially  her 
mother  and  sister,  and  obtain  for  herself  a  secure  and  estab- 
lished position,  with  an  end  to  all  these  quarrels  and  jealousies 
and  uncertainties.  Moreover,  there  would  be  safety  there. 
For,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  she  was  becoming  vaguely  and 
uncomfortably  conscious  that  her  relations  with  this  young 
gentleman  who  had  come  secretly  into  the  neighborhood  were 
no  longer  what  they  had  been  at  first.  Their  friendship  had 
ripened  rapidly ;  for  he  was  an  audacious  personage,  with  plenty 
of  self-assurance ;  and  with  all  his  professions  of  modesty  and 
deference,  he  seemed  to  know  very  well  that  he  could  make 
his  society  agreeable.  Then  those  lines  he  had  repeated :  why, 
•her  face  grew  warm  now  as  she  thought  of  them.  She  could 
not  remember  them  exactly,  but  she  remembered  their  purport ; 
and  she  remembered,  too,  the  emphasis  with  which  he  had  de- 
clared that  the  bonniest  of  our  English  roses  were  those  that 
grew  in  the  country  air.  Now  a  young  man  cut  ofl:'  from  his 
fellows  as  he  was  miglit  well  be  grateful  for  some  little  solace 
of  companionship),  or  for  this  or  the  other  little  bit  of  courtesy; 
but  he  need  not  (she  considered)  show  his  gratitude  just  in  that 
way.  Doubtless  his  flattery  might  mean  little ;  the  town  gen- 
tlemen, she  understood,  talked  in  that  sti-ain ;  and  i:)erhaps  it 
was  only  by  an  accident  that  the  verses  were  there  in  the  book ; 
but  still  she  had  the  uneasy  feeling  that  there  was  something 
in  his  manner  and  speech  that,  if  encouraged,  or  suffered  to 


A  CONJECTURE.  193 

continue  without  check,  might  lead  to  embarrassment.  That 
is  to  say,  if  she  continued  to  see  him ;  and  there  was  no  need 
for  that.  She  could  cut  short  this  acquaintance  the  moment 
she  chose.  But  on  the  one  hand  she  did  not  wisli  to  appear  un- 
civil; and  on  the  other  she  was  anxious  that  he  should  see  the 
whole  of  this  play  that  her  father  had  written — thrown  oflF ,  as 
it  were,  amid  the  various  cares  and  duties  that  occupied  his 
time.  If  Master  Leofric  Hope  talked  of  Ben  Jouson  when  he 
came  into  the  country,  she  would  have  him  furnished  with 
something  to  say  of  her  father  wlien  he  returned  to  town. 

These  were  idle  and  wandering  thoughts;  and  in  one  respect 
they  were  not  quite  honest.  In  reality  she  was  using  them  to 
cloak  and  hide,  or  to  drive  from  her  mind  altogether,  a  suspi- 
cion that  had  suddenly  occurred  to  her  that  morning,  and  that 
had  set  her  brain  afire  in  a  wild  way.  It  was  not  only  the 
tune  of  "Green-sleeves"  that  was  in  her  head  as  she  set  off  to 
walk  home,  though  she  was  trying  to  force  herself  to  believe 
that.  The  fact  is  this :  when  Master  Leofric  Hope  made  the 
pretty  speech  about  the  country  i-oses,  he  accompanied  it,  as 
has  been  said,  by  a  glance  of  only  too  outspoken  admiration; 
and  there  was  something  in  this  look— apart  from  the  mere 
flattery  of  it— that  puzzled  her.  She  was  confused,  doubtless; 
but  in  her  confusion  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  had  met  that 
regard  somewhere  before.  She  had  no  time  to  pursue  this 
fancy  further;  for  in  order  to  cover  her  embarrassment  she 
had  betaken  herself  to  the  sheets  in  her  satchel;  and  there- 
after she  was  so  anxious  that  he  should  think  well  of  the  play 
that  all  her  attention  was  fixed  on  that.  But  after  leaving 
him,  and  having  had  a  minute  or  two  to  think  over  what  had 
happened,  she  recalled  that  look,  and  wondered  why  there 
should  be  something  strange  in  it.  And  then  a  startling  fan- 
cy flashed  across  her  mind— the  wizard!  Was  not  that  the 
same  look — of  the  same  black  eyes— that  she  had  encountered 
up  at  the  corner  of  the  field  above  the  Weir  Brake  ?— a  glance 
of  wondering  admiration,  as  it  Avere?  And  if  these  two  were 
one  and  the  same  man  ?  Of  course  that  train,  being  lit,  ran  rap- 
idly enough:  there  were  all  kinds  of  parallels— in  the  elaborate 
courtesy,  in  the  suave  voice,  in  the  bold  aiul  eloquent  eyes. 
And  she  had  no  magical  theory  to  account  for  the  transforma- 
tion—it did  not  even  occur  to  her  that  the  wizard  could  have 

8* 


194  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

changed  liimself  into  a  young  man — there  was  no  dismay  or 
panic  in  that  direction :  she  instantly  took  it  for  granted  that 
it  was  the  young  man  who  had  been  personating  the  wizai'd. 
And  why? — to  what  end,  if  this  bewildering  possibility  were 
to  be  regarded  for  an  instant  ?  The  object  of  the  wizard's  com- 
ing was  to  point  out  to  her  her  future  husband.  And  if  this 
young  man  were  himself  the  wizai^d?     A  trick  to  entrap  her? 

Ariel  himself  could  not  have  flashed  from  place  to  place 
more  swiftly  than  this  wild  conjecture;  but  the  next  moment 
she  had  collected  herself.  Her  common-sense  triumphed.  She 
bethought  her  of  the  young  man  she  had  just  left — of  his  re- 
spectful manners^-of  the  letter  he  had  brought  for  her  father 
— of  the  circumstances  of  his  hiding.  It  was  not  possible  that 
he  had  come  into  the  neighborhood  for  the  deliberate  purpose 
of  making  a  jest  of  her.  Did  he  look  like  one  that  would  play 
such  a  trick;  that  would  name  himself  as  her  future  husband ; 
that  would  cozen  her  into  meeting  him  ?  She  felt  ashamed 
of  herself  for  harboring  such  a  thought  for  a  single  instant. 
Her  wits  had  gone  wool-gathering!  Or  was  it  that  Prudence's 
fears  had  so  far  got  hold  of  her  brain  that  she  could  not  regard 
the  young  man  but  as  something  other  than  an  ordinary  mor- 
tal ?  In  fair  justice,  she  would  dismiss  this  absui^d  surmise  from 
her  mind  forthwith;  and  so  she  proceeded  with  her  gathering 
of  the  flowers ;  and  when  she  did  set  forth  for  home,  she  had 
very  nearly  convinced  herself  that  there  was  nothing  in  her 
head  but  the  tune  of  ' '  Green-sleeves. "  Nay,  she  was  almost  in- 
clined to  be  angry  with  Prudence  for  teaching  her  to  be  so  sus- 
picious. 

Nevertheless,  during  this  protracted  dinner,  while  good  Mas- 
ter Izod  was  enlarging  upon  the  catalogue  of  persons  worthy 
of  honor  and  emulation,  Judith  was  attacked  once  more  by  the 
whisperings  of  the  demon.  For  a  while  she  fought  against 
these,  and  would  not  admit  to  herself  that  any  further  doubt 
remained  in  her  mind;  but  when  at  last  she  found  herself, 
despite  herself,  going  back  and  back  to  that  j)ossibility,  she 
took  heart  of  grace  and  boldly  faced  it.  What  if  it  were  true? 
Supposing  him  to  have  adopted  the  disguise,  and  passed  him- 
self ofi'  as  a  wizard,  and  directed  her  to  the  spot  where  she 
should  meet  her  future  husband — what  then  ?  What  ought 
she  to  do  ?     How  ought  she  to  regard  such  conduct  ?     As  an 


A  CONJECTURE.  195 

idle  frolic  of  youth  ?  Oi'  the  device  of  one  tired  of  the  loneli- 
ness of  living  at  the  farm,  and  determined  at  all  hazards  to 
secure  companionship  ?  Or  a  dai'ker  snare  still — with  what  ul- 
•timate  aims  she  could  not  divine  ?  Or  again  (for  she  was  quite 
frank),  if  this  were  merely  some  one  who  had  seen  her  from 
afar,  at  church,  or  fair,  or  market,  and  considered  she  was  a 
good-looking  maid,  and  wished  to  have  further  acquaintance, 
and  could  think  of  no  other  method  than  this  audacious  prank? 
She  had  heard  of  lovers'  stratagems  in  plenty,  she  knew  of 
one  or  two  of  such  that  had  been  resorted  to  in  this  same 
quiet  town  of  Stratford.  And  supposing  that  this  last  was  the 
case,  ought  she  to  be  indignant  ?  Should  she  resent  his  bold- 
ness in  hazarding  such  a  stroke  to  win  her  ?  And  then,  when 
it  suddenly  occurred  to  her  that,  in  discussing  this  possibility, 
she  was  calmly  assuming  that  Master  Leof  ric  Hope  was  in  love 
with  her — he  never  having  said  a  word  in  that  direction,  and 
being  in  a  manner  almost  a  stranger  to  hei' — she  told  herself 
that  no  audacity  on  his  part  could  be  greater  than  this  on  hers ; 
and  that  the  best  thing  she  could  do  would  be  to  get  rid  once 
and  forever  of  such  unmaidenly  conjectures.  No;  she  would 
go  back  to  her  original  position.  The  facts  of  the  case  were 
simple  enough.  He  would  have  brought  no  letter  to  her  fa- 
ther had  he  been  bent  on  any  such  fantastic  enterprise.  Was 
it  likely  he  would  suffer  the  thralldom  of  that  farm-house, 
and  liv^e  away  from  his  friends  and  companions,  for  the  mere 
chance  of  a  few  minutes'  occasional  talk  with  a  Stratford 
wench  ?  As  for  the  similarity  between  his  look  and  that  of  the 
wizard,  the  explanation  lay  no  doubt  in  her  own  fancy,  which 
had  been  excited  by  Prudence's  superstitious  fears.  And  if  in 
his  courtesy  h(i  had  applied  to  herself  the  lines  written  by  the 
young  Devonshire  poet — well,  that  was  but  a  piece  of  civility 
and  kindness,  for  which  she  ought  to  be  more  than  usually 
grateful,  seeing  that  she  had  not  experienced  too  much  of  that 
species  of  treatment  of  late  from  one  or  two  of  her  would-be 
suitors. 

She  was  awakened  from  these  dreams  by  the  conversation 
suddenly  ceasing ;  and  in  its  place  she  heard  the  more  solemn 
tones  of  the  thanksgiving  offered  up  by  Master  Izod : 

'"The  God  of  glory  and  peace,  who  hath  created,  redeemed, 


196  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

and  presently  fed  us,  be  blessed  forever  and  ever !  So  be  it. 
The  God  of  all  power,  who  hath  called  from  death  that  great 
I)astor  of  the  sheep,  our  Lord  Jesus,  comfort  and  defend  the 
flock  which  He  hath  redeemed  by  the  blood  of  the  eternal  tes- 
tament; increase  the  number  of  true  preachers;  repi*ess  the 
rage  of  obstinate  tyi'ants ;  mitigate  and  lighten  the  hearts  of 
the  ignorant;  relieve  the  pains  of  such  as  be  afflicted,  but 
specially  of  those  that  suffer  for  the  testimony  of  Thy  truth ; 
and  finally,  confound  Satan  by  the  jiower  of  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ.     Amen." 

And  then,  as  the  travellers  were  continuing  their  journey 
forthwith,  they  proposed  to  leave ;  and  Master  BuUer  expressed 
his  sorrow  that  Judith's  father  had  not  been  at  home  to  have 
made  the  friendship  of  a  man  so  famous  as  Master  Izod :  and 
the  good  parson,  in  his  tuim,  as  they  departed,  solemnly  bless- 
ed the  house  and  all  that  dwelt  therein,  whether  present  or 
absent.  As  soon  as  they  were  gone,  Judith  besought  her  mo- 
ther for  the  key  of  the  summer-house,  for  she  wished  to  lay  on 
her  father's  table  the  Avild  flowers  she  had  brought ;  and  hav- 
ing obtained  it,  she  carried  Prudence  with  her  into  the  garden, 
and  there  they  found  themselves  alone,  for  goodman  Matthew 
had  gone  home  for  his  dinner. 

"Dear  mouse," said  she,  quickly,  "what  is  it  hath  happened 
to  Tom  Quiney  ?" 

"I  know  not,  Judith, "the  other  said,  in  some  surprise. 

"It  is  in  his  mind  to  leave  the  country." 

"I  knew  not  that." 

"I  dare  be  sworn  you  did  not,  sweetheart,"  said  she,  "else 
surely  you  would  have  told  me.  But  why  ?  What  drives  him 
to  such  a  thingj?  His  business  prospers  well,  as  I  hear  them 
say;  and  yet  must  he  foi'sake  it  for  the  company  of  those 
desperate  men  that  are  going  away  to  fight  the  Indians  beyond 
seas.  Nothing  will  content  him.  England  is  no  longer  Eng- 
land; Stratford  is  no  longer  Stratford.  Mercy  on  us,  what  is 
the  meaning  of  it  all  ?" 

"In  truth  I  know  not,  Judith." 

Then  Judith  regarded  her. 

"Good  cousin,  I  fear  me  you  gave  him  but  a  cold  welcome 
yesternight." 


A  CONJECTURE.  197 

"  I  welcomed  him  as  I  would  welcome  any  of  my  brother's 
friends,"  said  Prudence,  calmly  and  without  embarrassment. 

"But  you  do  not  understand,"  Judith  said,  with  a  touch  of 
impatience.  "Bless  thy  heart!  young  men  are  such  strange 
creatures;  and  must  have  all  to  suit  their  humors;  and  are  off 
and  away  in  their  peevish  fits  if  you  do  not  entertain  them, 
and  cringe,  and  say  your  worship  to  every  sirrah  of  them !  Oh, 
they  be  mighty  men  of  valor  in  their  own  esteem ;  and  they 
must  have  us  poor  handmaidens  do  them  honor;  and  if  all  be 
not  done  to  serve,  'tis  boot  and  spur  and  off  to  the  wars  with 
them,  and  many  a  fine  tale  thereafter  about  tlie  noble  ladies 
that  were  kind  to  them  abroad.  Marry!  they  can  crow  loud 
enough ;  'tis  the  poor  hens  that  durst  never  utter  a  word ;  and 
all  must  give  way  before  his  worship !  What,  then  ?  What 
did  you  do  ?  Was  not  the  claret  to  his  liking  ?  Did  not  your 
bi'otlier  offer  him  a  pipe  of  Ti'inidado  ?" 

"Indeed,  Judith,  it  can  not  be  through  ought  that  happen- 
ed last  night,  if  he  be  speaking  of  leaving  the  country,"  Pru- 
dence said.  ' '  I  thought  he  was  well  content,  and  right  friend- 
ly in  his  mannei'." 

"But  you  do  not  take  my  meaning,"  Judith  said.  "Dear 
heai't,  bear  me  no  ill-will;  but  I  would  have  you  a  little  more 
free  with  your  favors.  You  are  too  serious,  sweet  mouse. 
Could  you  not  pluck  up  a  little  of  the  spirit  that  the  pretty  Ro- 
salind showed — do  you  remember? — when  she  was  teasing  Or- 
lando in  the  forest?  In  truth  these  men  are  fond  of  a  varying 
mood ;  when  they  play  with  a  kitten  they  like  to  know  it  has 
claws.  And  again,  if  you  be  too  civil  with  them,  they  pre- 
sume, and  would  become  the  master  all  at  once;  and  then 
must  everything  be  done  to  suit  their  lordships'  fantasies,  or 
else  'tis  up  and  away  with  them,  as  this  one  goes." 

"I  pray  you,  Judith,"  her  friend  said,  and  now  in  great  em- 
barrassment, "forbear  to  speak  of  such  things:  in  truth,  my 
heart  is  not  set  that  way.  Right  well  I  know  that  if  he  be 
leaving  tlie  country,  'tis  througli  no  discontent  with  me,  nor 
that  he  would  heed  in  any  way  how  I  received  him.  Nay,  'tis 
far  otherwise;  it  is  no  secret  whom  he  would  choose  for  wife. 
If  you  are  sorry  to  liear  of  his  going  away  from  his  home,  you 
know  that  a  woi'd  from  you  would  detain  him." 

"Good  mouse,  the  folly  of  such  thoughts!"  Judith  exclaim- 


198  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

ed.  ' '  Why,  when  he  will  not  even  give  me  a  '  Good-day  to 
you,  wench' ! " 

"You  best  know  what  reasons  he  had  for  his  silence,  Judith ; 
I  know  not." 

"  Reasons  ?"  said  she,  with  some  quick  color  coming  to  her 
face.  "We  will  let  that  alone,  good  gossip.  I  meddle  not 
with  any  man's  reasons,  if  he  choose  to  be  uncivil  to  me ;  God 
help  us,  the  world  is  wide  enough  for  all !" 

"Did  you  not  anger  him,  Judith,  that  he  is  going  away  from 
his  home  and  his  friends  ?" 

"Anger  him?  Perchance  his  own  suspicions  have  angered 
him,"  was  the  answer;  and  then  she  said,  in  a  gentler  tone: 
"  But  in  truth  I  hope  he  will  change  his  mind.  Twenty  years 
is  a  long  space  to  be  away  from  one's  native  land ;  there  would 
be  many  changes  ere  he  came  back.      Twenty  years,  he  said." 

Judith  rather  timidly  looked  at  her  companion,  but  indeed 
there  was  neither  surprise  nor  dismay  depicted  on  the  pale  and 
gentle  face.  Her  eyes  were  absent,  it  is  true,  but  they  did  not 
seem  to  crave  for  sympathy. 

"  'Tis  strange,"  said  she.  "He  said  nought  of  such  a  scheme 
last  night,  though  he  and  Julius  spoke  of  this  very  matter  of 
the  men  who  were  preparing  to  cross  the  seas.  I  know  not 
what  can  have  moved  him  to  such  a  purpose." 

"Does  he  imagine,  think  you,"  said  Judith,  "that  we  shall 
all  be  here  awaiting  him  at  the  end  of  twenty  years,  and  as  we 
are  now  ?  Or  is  he  so  sure  of  his  own  life  ? — they  say  there  is 
great  peril  in  the  new  lands  they  have  taken  i^ossession  of  be- 
yond sea,  and  that  there  will  be  many  a  bloody  fight  ere  they 
can  reap  the  fruit  of  their  labors  in  peace.  Nay,  I  will  con- 
fess to  thee,  sweet  mouse,  I  like  not  his  going.  Old  friends 
are  old  friends,  even  if  they  have  wayward  humors ;  and  fain 
would  I  have  him  remain  with  us  here  in  Stratford — ay,  and 
settled  here,  moreover,  with  a  sweet  Puritan  wife  by  his  side, 
that  at  present  must  keep  everything  hidden.  Well,  no  mat- 
ter," she  continued,  lightly.  "  I  seek  no  secrets — except  those 
that  be  in  the  oaken  box  within  here." 

She  unlocked  the  door  of  the  summer-house,  and  entered, 
and  put  the  flowers  on  the  table.  "  Tell  me,  Prue,"  said  she, 
"may  we  venture  to  take  some  more  of  the  play,  or  must  I 
wait  till  I  have  put  back  the  other  sheets  ?" 


A  CONJECTURE.  199 

"You  have  not  put  them  back  ?" 

"In  truth,  no,"  said  Judith,  carelessly.  "  I  lent  them  to  the 
young  gentleman,  Leofric  Hope." 

"Judith!"  her  friend  exclaimed,  with  frightened  eyes. 
"What,  then?" 

"To  one  you  know  nothing  of?  You  have  parted  with 
these  sheets— that  are  so  valuable  ?" 

"Nay,  nay,  good  mouse,"  said  she;  "you  know  the  sheets 
are  cast  away  as  useless.  And  I  but  lent  them  to  him  for  an 
hour  or  two  to  lighten  the  tedium  of  his  solitude.  Nor  was 
that  all,  good  Prue,  if  I  must  tell  thee  the  truth :  I  would  fain 
have  him  know  that  my  father  can  do  something  worth  speak- 
ing of  as  well  as  his  friend  Ben  Jon  son,  and  perchance  even 
better:  what  think  you  ?" 

"You  have  seen  liim  again,  then  ? — this  morning  ?" 
"Even  so,"  Judith  answered,  calmly. 

"Judith,  why  will  you  run  into  such  danger?"  her  friend 
said,  in  obvious  distress.  "In  truth  I  know  not  what  'twill 
come  to.  And  now  there  is  this  farther  bond  in  this  secret 
commerce— think  you  that  all  this  can  remain  unknown? 
Your  meeting  with  him  must  come  to  some  one's  knowledge — 
indeed  it  must,  sweetheart." 

"Nay,  but  this  time  you  have  hit  the  mark,"  said  Judith, 
complacently.  "If  you  would  assure  yourself,  good  Prue, 
that  the  young  gentleman  is  no  grisly  ghost  or  phantom,  me- 
thinks  you  could  not  do  better  than  ask  Tom  Quiney,  Avho 
saw  him  this  very  morning — and  saw  us  speaking  together,  as 
I  guess." 

' '  He  saw  you  !"  Prudence  exclaimed.  ' '  And  what  said  he?" 
"  He  talked  large  and  wild  for  a  space,"  said  Juditli,  coolly, 
"-""suaded  him  there  was  no  gi'eat  harm  in  the 
lan.  In  sooth  his  mind  was  so  full  of  his  own 
>itter  against  all  preachers,  ministers,  and  pas- 
mid  liave  it  that  England  was  no  longer  fit  to 
he  told  me  so  many  things  in  so  few  minutes 
■  forgotten  them !" 

suddenly  occurred  to  her  that  this  fantasy  that 
■r  mind  in  the  morning,  and  that  had  haunted 
ter  Elihu  Izod's  discourse,  would  be  an  excellent 
ch  to  frighten  Prudence.     'Twas  but  a  chimei^a, 


200  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

she  assured  herself;  but  there  was  euoug-h  substance  in  it  for 
that.  And  so,  when  she  had  carefully  arranged  the  flowers 
on  the  table,  and  cast  another  longing  look  at  the  oaken  chest, 
she  locked  the  door  of  the  summer-house,  and  put  her  arm  with- 
in the  arm  of  her  friend,  and  led  her  aAvay  for  a  walk  in  the 
garden. 

"Prudence,"  said  she,  seriously,  "I  would  have  you  give 
me  counsel.  Some  one  hath  asked  me  what  a  young  maiden 
should  do  in  certain  circumstances  that  I  will  put  before  you ; 
but  how  can  I  tell,  how  can  I  judge  of  anything,  when  my 
head  is  in  a  whirligig  of  confusion  with  parsons'  arguments, 
and  people  leaving  the  country,  and  I  know  not  what  else  ? 
But  you,  good  mouse— your  mind  is  ever  calm  and  equable 
— you  can  speak  sweet  words  in  Israel — you  are  as  Daniel  that 
was  so  excellent  a  judge  even  in  his  youth — " 

"Judith !"  the  other  protested ;  but  indeed  Judith's  eyes  were 
perfectly  grave  and  apparently  sincere. 

"Well,  then,  sweetheart,  listen :  let  us  say  that  a  young  man 
has  seen  a  young  maiden  that  is  not  known  to  him  but  by  name 
—perchance  at  church  it  may  have  been,  or  as  she  was  walking 
home  to  her  own  door.  And  there  may  be  reasons  why  he 
should  not  go  boldly  to  her  father's  house,  though  he  would 
fain  do  so ;  his  fancy  being  taken  with  her  in  a  small  measure, 
and  he  of  a  gentle  disposition,  and  ready  to  esteem  her  higher 
than  she  deserved.  And  again  it  might  be  that  he  wished  for 
private  speech  with  her— to  judge  of  her  manners  and  her  in- 
clinations—before coming  publicly  forward  to  pay  court  to  her: 
but  alack,  I  can  not  tell  the  stoiy  as  my  father  would ;  'tis  the 
veriest  skeleton  of  a  story,  and  I  fear  me  you  will  scarce  under- 
stand. But  let  us  say  that  the  young  man  is  bold  and  ingenious, 
and  bethinks  him  of  a  stratagem  whereby  to  make  acquaint- 
ance with  the  damsel.  He  writes  to  her  as  a  wizard  that  has 
important  ncAvs  to  tell  her ;  and  begs  her  to  go  forth  and  meet 
him ;  and  that  on  a  cei'tain  morning  he  will  be  awaiting  her  at 
such  and  such  a  place.  Now  this  maiden  that  I  am  telling  you 
of  has  no  great  faith  in  wizards,  but  being  curious  to  see  the 
juggling,  she  goes  forth  to  meet  him  as  he  asks—" 

"Judith,  I  pray  you  speak  plain;  what  is't  you  mean?"  Pru- 
dence exclaimed;  for  she  had  begun  to  suspect. 

"You  must  listen,  good  mouse,  before  you  can  give  judg- 


A  CONJECTURE.  301 

f 

ment,"  said  Judith,  calmly;  and  she  proceeded:  "Now  you 
must  understand  that  it  was  the  young  gentleman  himself 
whom  she  met,  though  she  knew  it  not ;  for  he  had  dressed  him- 
self up  as  an  ancient  wizard,  and  he  had  a  solemn  manner, 
and  Latin  speech,  and  what  not.  Then  says  the  wizard  to 
her,  '  I  can  show  you  the  man  that  is  to  be  your  lover  and  sweet- 
heart and  husband;  that  will  win  you  and  wear  you  in  the 
time  coming;  and  if  you  would  see  him,  go  to  such  and  such 
a  cross-road,  and  he  will  appear.'  Do  you  perceive,  now,  sweet 
mouse,  that  it  was  a  safe  prophecy,  seeing  that  he  had  appoint- 
ed himself  to  be  the  very  one  who  should  meet  her  ?" 

Prudence  had  gradually  slip^Dcd  her  arm  away  from  that 
of  her  friend,  and  now  stood  still,  regarding  her  breathless- 
ly, while  Judith,  with  eyes  quite  placid  and  inscrutable,  con- 
tinued her  story: 

"  'Twas  a  noteworthy  stratagem,  and  successful  withal;  for 
the  maiden  goes  to  the  cross-road,  and  there  she  meets  the 
young  gentleman — now  in  his  proper  costume.  But  she  has 
no  great  faith  in  magic ;  she  regards  him  not  as  a  ghost  sum- 
m^onod  by  the  wizard;  she  would  rather  see  in  this  meeting  an 
ordinary  accident ;  and  the  young  man  being  most  courteous 
and  modest  and  civil-spoken,  they  become  friends.  Do  you 
follow  the  story  ?  You  see,  good  mouse,  there  is  much  in  his 
condition  to  demand  symj)athy  and  kindness — he  being  in  hid- 
ing, and  cut  off  from  his  friends;  and  she,  not  being  too  indus- 
trious, and  fond  rather  of  walking  in  the  meadows  and  the  like, 
meets  him  now  here,  now  there,  but  with  no  other  thought 
than  friendliness.  I  pray  you,  bear  that  in  mind,  sweetheart; 
for  though  I  esteem  her  not  highly,  yet  would  I  do  her  justice: 
there  was  no  thought  in  her  mind  but  friendliness,  and  a  wish 
to  be  civil  to  one  that  seemed  gi'atef  ul  for  any  sucli  communion. 
And  then  one  morning  something  happens — beshrcw  me  if  I  can 
tell  thee  how  it  happened,  and  that  is  the  truth — but  something 
happens — an  idea  jumps  into  her  head — she  suspects  that  this 
young  gentleman  is  no  other  than  the  same  who  was  the 
wizard,  and  that  she  has  been  entrapped  by  him,  and  that  he, 
having  i)layed  the  wizard,  would  now  fain  play  the  lover — " 

"Judith,  is't  possible! — is't  possible!" 

"Hold,  cousin,  hold ;  your  time  is  not  yet.     I  grant  you  'tis 
a  bold  conjecture,  and  some  would  say  not  quite  seemly  and 


202  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

becoming  to  a  maiden,  seeing  that  he  had  never  spoken  any 
word  to  her  of  the  kind;  but  there  it  was  in  her  head — the  sus- 
picion that  this  young  gentleman  had  tricked  her,  for  his  own 
amusement,  or  perchance  to  secure  her  company.  Now,  sweet 
judge  in  Israel,  for  your  judgment !  And  on  two  points,  please 
you.  First,  supposing  this  conjecture  to  be  false,  how  is  she 
to  atone  to  the  young  gentleman  ?  And  how  is  she  to  jDunish 
herself  ?  And  how  is  she  to  be  anything  but  uneasy  should 
she  chance  to  see  him  again?  Nay,  more,  how  is  she  to  get  this 
evil  suspicion  banished  from  her  mind,  seeing  that  she  dare 
not  go  to  him  and  confess,  and  beg  him  for  the  assurance  that 
he  had  never  heard  of  the  wizard?  Then  the  second  point: 
supposing  the  conjecture  to  be  true,  ought  she  to  be  very  in- 
dignant ?  How  should  she  demean  herself  ?  Should  she  go 
to  him  and  reproach  him  with  his  treacheiy  ?  She  would  nev- 
er forgive  it,  dear  mouse,  would  she,  even  as  a  lover's  strata- 
gem ?" 

"Judith,  I  can  not  understand  you;  I  can  not  understand 
how  you  can  even  regard  such  a  possibility,  and  remain  con- 
tent and  smiling — " 

"  Then  I  ought  to  be  indignant  ? — good  cousin,  I  hut  asked 
for  your  advice,"  Judith  said.  "I  must  be  angry;  I  must 
fret  and  fume,  and  use  hot  language,  and  play  the  tragedy 
part  ?  In  good  sooth,  when  I  think  on't,  'twas  a  piece  of  bold- 
ness to  put  himself  forward  as  my  future  husband— it  was  in- 
deed— though  'twas  cunningly  contrived.  Marry,  but  I  under- 
stand now  why  my  goodman  wizard  would  take  no  money  from 
me;  'twas  myself  that  he  would  have  in  payment  of  his  skill; 
and  '  gracious  lady'  and  '  sweet  lady,'  these  were  the  lures  to 
lead  me  on ;  and  his  shepherd's  dial  placed  on  the  ground ! 
Then  off  go  beard  and  cloak,  and  a  couple  of  days  thei'eafter 
he  is  a  gay  young  gallant;  and  'sweet  lady'  it  is  again — or 
'  fair  lady,'  was't  ? — '  know  you  one  Master  Shakespeare  in  the 
town  ?'  And  such  modesty,  and  such  downcast  eyes,  and  an 
appeal  for  one  in  misfortune:  Heaven  save  us,  was  it  not  well 
done  ?  Modesty !  By  my  life,  a  rare  modest  gentleman !  He 
comes  down  to  Stratford,  armed  with  his  London  speech  and 
his  London  manners,  and  he  looks  around.  Which  one,  then  ? 
which  of  all  the  maidens  will  his  lordship  choose  for  wife  ? 
'Oh!'  saith  he,  'there  is  Judith  Shakespeare;  she  will  do  as 


A  CONJECTURE.  203 

well  as  another;  perchance  better,  for  New  Place  is  the  fairest 
house  in  the  town,  and  doubtless  she  will  have  a  goodly  mar- 
riage portion.  So  now  how  to  secure  her  ?  how  to  charm  her 
away  from  any  clownish  sweetheart  she  may  chance  to  have? 
Easily  done,  i'  faith ! — a  country  wench  is  sure  to  believe  in 
magic ;  'tis  but  raising  my  own  ghost  out  of  the  gi'ound,  and 
a  summons  to  her,  and  I  have  her  sure  and  safe,  to  win  and  to 
weai',  for  better  or  worse!'"  She  looked  at  Prudence.  "Hea- 
ven's blessings  on  us  all,  good  Prue,  was  there  ever  poor  maid- 
en played  such  a  scurril  trick  ?" 

' '  Then  your  eyes  are  opened,  Judith  ?"  said  Prudence,  eager- 
ly,    "  You  will  have  no  more  to  do  with  such  a  villain?" 

Again  Judith  regarded  her,  and  laughed. 

"I  but  told  a  story  to  frighten  thee,  good  heai't,"  said  she. 
"A  desperate  villain?  Yes,  truly;  but 'tis  I  am  a  desperate 
villain  to  let  such  rascal  suspicions  possess  me  for  an  instant. 
Nay,  good  mouse,  think  of  it ! — is't  possible  that  one  would 
dare  so  much  for  so  poor  a  prize  ?  That  the  young  gentleman 
hath  some  self-assurance,  I  know;  and  he  can  quickly  make 
friends;  but  do  you  think,  if  any  such  dark  design  had  been 
his,  he  would  have  entered  my  grandmother's  cottage,  and  ate 
and  drank  there,  and  promised  to  renew  his  visit  ?  Sweet  judge 
in  Israel,  your  decision  on  tlie  other  point,  I  pray  you  !  Wliat 
penance  must  I  do  for  letting  sucli  cruel  thoughts  stray  into 
my  brain  ?  How  shall  I  purge  them  away  ?  To  whom  must 
I  confess  ?  Nay,  methinks  I  must  go  to  the  young  gentleman 
himself,  and  say:  'Good  sir,  I  have  a  friend  and  gossip  that 
is  named  Prudence  Shawe,  who  hath  a  strange  belief  in  })han- 
toui-men  and  conspiratoi's.  I  pray  you  pardon  me  that  through 
her  my  brain  is  somewhat  distraught;  and  that  I  had  half  a 
mind  to  accuse  you  of  a  plot  for  stealing  me  away — me,  who 
have  generally  this  stout  mastiff  with  me.  I  speech  you,  sir, 
steal  me  not — nay,  forgive  me  that  I  ever  dreamed  of  your  hav- 
ing any  such  purpose.  'Tis  our  rude  country  manners,  good 
sir,  that  teach  a  maid  to  believe  a  man  may  not  speak  to  her 
without  intent  to  marry  her.  I  pray  you  pardon  me — my 
heart  is  kneeling  to  you,  could  you  but  see — and  give  me  such 
assurance  that  you  meditated  no  such  thing  as  will  bring  me 
back  my  scattered  senses.'  Were  not  that  well  done  ?  Shall 
tliat  be  my  penance,  good  mouse  ?" 


204  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

"Dear  Judith,  tell  me  true,"  her  friend  said,  almost  piteous- 
ly,  "do  you  suspect  him  of  having  played  the  wizard  to  cheat 
you  and  entrap  you  ?" 

' '  Good  cousin, "  said  she,  in  her  frankest  manner, ' '  I  confess : 
I  did  suspect — for  an  instant.  I  know  not  what  put  it  into  my 
head.  But  sure  I  am  I  have  done  him  wrong — marry,  'twere 
no  such  deadly  sin  even  had  he  been  guilty  of  such  a  trick ; 
but  I  believe  it  not — nay,  he  is  too  civil  and  gentle  for  a  jest  of 
the  kind.  When  I  see  him  again  I  must  make  him  amends 
for  my  evil  thinking :  do  not  I  owe  him  as  much,  good  gossip?" 

This  was  all  she  could  say  at  present,  for  Matthew  gardener 
here  made  his  appearance,  and  that  was  the  signal  for  their 
withdrawing  into  the  house.  But  that  afternoon,  as  Judith 
bethought  her  that  Master  Leofric  Hope  would  be  coming  to 
her  grandmother's  cottage  with  the  manuscript  he  had  prom- 
ised to  return,  she  became  more  and  more  anxious  to  see  him 
again.  Somehow  she  thought  she  could  more  efPectually 
drive  away  this  disquieting  surmise  if  she  could  but  look  at 
him,  and  regard  his  manner,  and  hear  him  speak.  As  it  turn- 
ed out,  however,  it  was  not  until  somewhat  late  on  in  the  even- 
ing that  she  found  time  to  seek  out  little  Willie  Hart,  and  pro- 
pose to  him  that  he  should  walk  with  her  as  far  as  Shottery. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  ENGLAND.  205 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A  DAUGHTER  OP  ENGLAND. 

"  Sweetheart  Willie,"  she  said— and  her  hand  lay  lightly- 
on  his  shoulder,  as  they  were  walking  through  the  meadows  in 
the  quiet  of  this  warm  golden  evening — "  what  mean  you  to 
be  when  you  grow  up  ?" 

He  thought  for  a  second  or  two,  and  then  he  rather  timidly 
I'egai'ded  her. 

"What  would  you  have  me  to  be,  Cousin  Judith  ?"  he  said. 

"Why,  then,"  said  she,    "methinks  I  would  have  you  be 
part  student  and  part  soldier,  were  it  possible,  like  the  gallant 
3ir  Philip  Sidney,  that  Queen  Elizabeth  said  was  the  jewel  of 
her  reign.       And  yet  you  know,  sweetheart,  that  we  can  not 
all  of  us  be  of  such  great  estate.     There  be  those  who  live  at 
the  court,  and  have  wealth  and  lands,  and  expeditions  given 
them  to  fit  out,  so  that  they  gain  fame ;  that  is  not  the  lot  of 
every  one,  and  I  know  not  whetlier  it  may  be  yours — though 
for  brave  men  there  is   ever  a  chance.     But  this  I  know  I 
would  liave  you  ready  to  do,  whether  you  be  in  high  position 
or  in  low,  and  that  is  to  fight  for  England,  if  needs  be,  and  de- 
fend her,  and  cherish   her.     Why,"  she  said,   "what  would 
you  think,  now,  of  one  brought  up  by  a  gentle  mother,  one 
that  owes  his  birth  and  training  to  this  good  mother,  and  be- 
cause there  is  sometliing  amiss  in  tlie  liouse,  and  because  every- 
thing is  not  to  his  mind,  he  ups  and  says  he  must  go  away  and 
forsake  her  ?     Call  you  that  the  thought  of  a  loyal  son  and 
one  that  is  grateful  ?     I  call  it  the  thought  of  a  peevish,  fro- 
ward,  fractious  child.     Because,  forsooth,  this  thing  or  the  oth- 
er is  not  to  his  woi-ship's  liking,  or  all  the  company  not  such  as 
he  would  desire,  or  others  of  the  family  having  different  opiil- 
ions — as  surely,  in  God's  name,  they  have  a  right  to  have — 
why,  he  must  needs  forsake  the  mother  that  boi*e  him,  and  be 
off   and   away   to  other  countries!     Sweetheart  Willie,  that 
shall  never  be  your  mind,  I  charge  you.     No,  you  shall  i-c- 


306  JUDITH   SHAKESPEARE. 

main  faithful  to  your  mother  England,  that  is  a  dear  mother 
and  a  good  mother,  and  hath  done  well  by  her  sons  and. 
daughtei's  for  many  a  hundi-ed  years ;  and  you  shall  be  proud 
of  her,  and  ready  to  fight  for  her,  ay,  and  to  give  your  life  for 
the  love  of  her,  if  ever  the  need  should  be!" 

He  was  a  small  lad,  but  he  was  sensitive  and  proud-spirited ; 
and  he  loved  dearly  this  Cousin  Judith  who  had  made  this  ap- 
peal to  him ;  so  that  for  a  second  the  blood  seemed  to  forsake 
his  face. 

"  I  am  too  young  as  yet  to  do  auglit,  Cousin  Judith,"  said 
he,  in  rather  a  low  voice,  for  his  breath  seemed  to  catch ;  ' '  but 
— but  when  I  am  become  a  man  I  know  that  there  will  be 
one  that  will  sooner  die  than  see  any  Spaniard  or  Frenchman 
seize  the  country." 

"  Bravely  said,  sweetheart,  by  my  life!"  she  exclaimed  (and 
her  approval  was  very  sweet  to  his  ears).  "That  is  the  spirit 
that  women's  hearts  love  to  hear  of,  I  can  tell  thee."  And  she 
stooped  and  kissed  him  in  reward.  ' '  Hold  to  that  faith.  Be 
not  ashamed  of  your  loyalty  to  your  mother  England  ! 
Ashamed  ?  Heaven's  mercy !  where  is  there  such  another  coun- 
try to  be  proud  of?  And  where  is  there  another  mother  that 
hath  bred  such  a  race  of  sons  ?  Why,  times  without  number 
have  I  heard  my  father  say  that  neither  Greece,  nor  Rome, 
nor  Carthage,  nor  any  of  them,  were  such  a  race  of  men  as 
these  in  this  small  island,  nor  had  done  such  great  things,  nor 
earned  so  great  a  fame,  in  all  jjarts  of  the  woi'ld  and  beyond 
the  seas.  And  mark  you  this,  too :  'tis  the  men  who  are  fiercest 
to  fight  with  men  that  are  the  gentlest  to  women ;  they  make 
no  slaves  of  their  women;  they  make  companions  of  them; 
and  in  honoring  them  they  honor  themselves,  as  I  reckon. 
Why,  now,  could  I  but  remember  what  my  father  hath  writ- 
ten about  England,  'twould  stir  your  heart,  I  know;  that  it 
would;  for  you  are  one  of  the  true  stuff,  I'll  be  sworn;  and 
you  will  grow  up  to  do  your  duty  by  your  gracious  mother 
England — not  to  run  away  from  her  in  peevish  discontent  1" 

She  cast  about  for  some  time,  her  memory,  that  she  could 
not  replenish  by  any  book-reading,  being  a  large  and  some- 
what miscellaneous  store-house. 

"'Twas  after  this  fashion,"  said  she,  "if  I  remember 
aright : 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  ENGLAND.  207 

'  Tliis  royal  throne  of  kings,  this  sceptred  isle. 
This  earth  of  majesty,  this  seat  of  Mars, 
This  fortress,  built  by  Nature  for  lierself 
Against  infestion  and  the  hand  of  war  ; 
This  happy  breed  of  men,  this  little  vjorld, 
This  precious  stone  set  in  the  silver  sea, 
'  Which  serves  it  in  the  office  of  a  wall, 
Or  as  a  moat  defensive  to  a  house, 
Against  the  envy  of  less  happier  lands — 
This  blessed  plot,  this  earth,  this  realm,  this  England  P 

Mark  you  that,  sweetheart  ?—is't  not  a  land  worth  fightrng 
for  ?  Ay,  and  she  hath  had  sons  that  could  fight  for  her ; 
and  she  hath  them  yet,  I  dare  be  sworn,  if  the  need  were  to 
arise.  And  this  is  what  you  shall  say.  Cousin  Willie,  when 
you  are  a  man  and  grown : 

'  Corae  the  three  corners  of  the  world  in  arms. 

And  we  shall  shock  them.     Naught  shall  make  ?«  »•!«?, 

If  England  to  itself  do  rest  but  true  /'  " 

These  quotations  were  but  for  the  instruction  of  this  small 
cousin  of  hers,  and  yet  her  own  face  was  proud. 

"Shall  I  be  a  soldier,  then,  Cousin  Judith?"  the  boy  said. 
"I  am  willing  enough.  I  would  be  what  you  would  wish  me 
to  be;  and  if  I  went  to  the  wars,  you  would  never  have  need 
to  be  shamed  of  me." 

"That  know  I  right  well,  sweetheart,"  said  she,  and  she 
patted  him  on  the  head.  "But  'tis  not  every  one's  duty  to 
follow  that  calling.  You  must  wait  and  judge  for  yourself. 
But  whatever  chances  life  may  bring  you,  this  must  you  ever 
remain,  if  you  would  have  my  love,  sweetheart,  and  that  I 
hope  you  shall  have  always— you  must  remain  a  good  and 
loyal  son  to  your  mother  England,  one  not  easily  discontented 
with  small  discomforts,  and  sent  forth  in  a  peevish  fit.  Where 
is  there  a  fairer  country  ?  Marry,  I  know  of  none.  Look 
around — is't  not  a  fair  enough  country  ?" 

And  fair  indeed  on  this  quiet  evening  was  that  wide  sti*etch 
of  Warwickshire,  with  its  hedges  and  green  meadows,  and  low- 
lying  wooded  hills  bathed  in  the  warm  sunset  light.  But  it  was 
the  presence  of  Judith  that  made  it  all  magical  and  mystical 
to  him.  Whatever  she  regarded  with  her  clear-shining  and 
wondrous  eyes  was  beautiful  enough  for  him— while  her  hand 
lay  on  las  shoulder  or  touched  liis  hair.  He  was  a  willing 
pupil.     He  drank  in  those  lessons  in  patriotism:  what  was  it 


208  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE, 

he  would  not  do  for  his  cousin  Judith  ?  What  was  it  he 
would  not  believe  if  it  were  she  who  told  him,  in  that  strange 
voice  of  hers,  that  thrilled  him,  and  was  like  music  to  him, 
whether  she  spoke  to  him  in  this  proud,  admonitory  way,  or 
was  in  a  teasing  mood,  or  was  gentle  and  affectionate  toward 
him  ?  Yes,  this  Warwickshire  landscape  was  fair  enough,  un- 
der the  calm  sunset  sky;  hut  he  knew  not  what  made  it  all  so 
mystical  and  wonderful,  and  made  the  far  golden  clouds  seem 
as  the  very  gateways  to  heaven. 

"Or  is  there  one  with  a  prouder  story  ?"  she  continued. 
"Or  a  land  of  greater  freedom  ?  Why,  look  at  me,  now. 
Here  am  I,  a  woman,  easily  frightened,  helpless  if  there  were 
danger,  not  able  to  fight  any  one.  Why,  you  yourself.  Cousin 
Willie,  if  you  were  to  draw  a  dagger  on  me,  I  declare  to  thee  I 
would  run  and  shriek  and  hide.  Well,  look  at  me  as  I  stand 
here:  all  the  might  and  majesty  of  England  can  not  harm 
me ;  I  am  free  to  go  or  to  stay.  What  needs  one  more  ?  None 
durst  put  a  hand  on  me.  My  mind  is  as  free  as  my  footsteps. 
I  may  go  this  way  or  that  as  I  choose ;  and  no  one  may  com- 
mand me  to  believe  this,  that,  or  the  other.  What  more  ? 
And  this  security — think  you  it  had  not  to  be  fought  for  ? — 
think  you  it  was  not  Avorth  the  fighting  for  ?  Or  think  you 
we  should  forget  to  give  good  thanks  to  the  men  that  faced  the 
Spaniards,  and  drove  them  by  sea  and  shore,  and  kept  our  Eng- 
land to  ourselves  ?  Or  think  you  we  should  forget  our  good 
Queen  Bess,  that  I  warrant  me  had  as  much  spirit  as  they, 
and  was  as  much  a  man  as  any  of  them  ?" 

She  laughed. 

' '  Perchance  you  never  heai'd,  sweetheart,  of  the  answer  that 
she  made  to  the  Spanish  ambassador  ?" 

' '  No,  Judith, "  said  he,  but  something  in  her  manner  told 
him  that  there  had  been  no  cowardice  in  that  answer. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "  I  will  tell  thee  the  story  of  what  hap- 
pened at  Dejitford.  And  now  I  bethink  me,  this  must  you  do. 
Cousin  Willie,  when  you  are  grown  to  be  a  man ;  and  whether 
you  be  soldier  or  sailor,  or  merchant,  or  student,  'tis  most  like 
that  some  day  or  other  you  will  be  in  London  ;  and  then  must 
you  not  fail  to  go  straightway  to  Deptford  to  see  the  famous 
ship  of  Sir  Francis  Drake  lying  there.  I  tell  thee,  'twas  a 
goodly  thought  to  place  it  there ;  that  was  like  our  brave  Queen 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  ENGLAND.  209 

Bess;  she  would  have  tlie  youth  of  the  country  regard  with 
honor  the  ship  that  had  been  all  round  the  world,  and  chased 
the  Spaniards  from  every  sea.  Nay,  so  bad  is  my  memory 
that  I  can  not  recall  the  name  of  the  vessel — perchance  'twas 
the  Judith — at  least  I  have  heard  that  he  had  one  of  that  name; 
but  there  it  lies,  to  signal  the  glory  of  England  and  the  routing 
of  Spain." 

"The  Judith V  said  he,  with  wondering  eyes.  "Did  he 
name  the  ship  after  you,  cousin  ?" 

"  Bless  the  lad!  All  that  I  am  going  to  tell  thee  happened 
ere  I  was  born." 

"No  matter, " said  he,  stoutly;  "the  first  thing  I  will  ask  to 
see,  if  ever  I  get  to  London,  is  that  veiy  ship. " 

"Well,  then,  the  story,"  she  continued,  shaping  the  thing  in 
her  mind  (for  being  entirely  destitute  of  book-learning,  histor- 
ical incidents  were  apt  to  assume  a  dramatic  form  in  her  ima- 
gination, and  also  to  lose  literal  accuracy  of  outline).  "You 
must  know  the  Spaniards  were  sore  vexed  because  of  the  do- 
ings of  Francis  Drake  in  all  parts  of  the  world,  for  he  had 
plundered  and  liarried  them,  and  burned  their  ships  and  their 
towns,  and  made  the  very  name  of  England  a  terror  to  them. 
'Tis  no  marvel  if  they  wished  to  get  hold  of  him;  and  they 
declared  him  to  be  no  better  than  a  pirate;  and  they  would 
have  the  Queen — that  is,  our  last  Queen — deliver  him  over 
to  them  that  they  might  do  with  him  what  they  willed.  Mar- 
ry, 'twas  a  bold  demand  to  make  of  England  !  And  the  Queen, 
how  does  she  take  it,  think  you  ? — how  is  she  moved  to  act  in 
such  a  pass  ?  Why,  she  goes  down  to  Deptford,  to  this  very 
ship  that  I  told  thee  of — she  and  all  her  nobles  and  ladies,  for 
they  would  see  the  famous  ship.  Then  they  had  dinner  on 
board,  as  I  have  heard  the  story ;  and  the  Queen's  Majesty  ask- 
ed many  particulars  of  his  voyages  from  Master  Drake,  and  re- 
ceived from  him  certain  jewels  as  a  gift,  and  was  right  proud 
to  wear  them.  Then  says  she  aloud  to  them  all :  '  My  lords,  is 
this  the  man  the  Spaniards  would  have  me  give  over  to  them  V 
Right  well  she  knew  he  was  the  man ;  but  that  was  her  way, 
and  she  would  call  the  attention  of  all  of  them.  'Your  Majes- 
ty,'they  said,  "tis  no  other.'  Then  she  swore  a  great  oath 
that  the  Queen  of  England  knew  how  to  make  answer  to  such 
a  demand.     'Come  hither,  Master  Drake, 'says  she,  in  a  terri- 

9 


210  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

ble  voice.  '  Kneel !'  Then  he  knelt  on  his  knee  before  her. 
'My  lord,'  says  she  to  one  of  the  noblemen  standing  close  by, 
'your  sword!'  And  then,  when  she  had  the  sword  in  her 
hand,  she  says,  in  a  loud  voice,  '  My  lords,  this  is  the  man 
that  Spain  would  have  us  give  up  to  her ;  and  this  is  the  an- 
swer of  England:  Arise,  Sir  Francis!' — and  with  that  she  taps 
him  on  the  shoulder — which  is  the  Avay  of  making  a  knight. 
Cousin  Willie ;  and  I  pray  you  may  be  brave  and  valiant,  and 
come  to  the  same  dignity,  so  that  all  of  us  here  in  Stratford 
shall  say,  '  There,  now,  is  one  that  knew  how  to  serve  faith- 
fully his  fair  mother  England !'  But  that  was  not  all,  you 
must  know,  that  happened  with  regai'd  to  Sir  Francis  Drake. 
For  the  Spanish  ambassador  was  wroth  with  the  Queen ;  ay, 
and  went  the  length  even  of  speaking  with  threats.  '  'Twill 
come  to  the  cannon,' says  he.  'What?'  says  she,  turning 
upon  him.  'Your  Majesty ,' say  s  he,  'I  fear  me  this  matter 
will  come  to  the  cannon.'  And  guess  you  her  answer? — nay, 
they  say  she  spoke  quite  calmly,  and  regarded  him  from  head 
to  foot,  and  that  if  there  were  anger  in  her  heart  there  was  none 
in  her  voice.  'Little  man,  little  man,'  says  she,  'if  I  hear  any 
more  such  words  from  thee,  by  God  I  will  clap  thee  straight 
into  a  dungeon !'  " 

Judith  laughed,  in  a  proud  kind  of  way. 

"  That  was  the  answer  that  England  gave,"  said  she,  "and 
that  she  is  like  to  give  again,  if  the  Don  or  any  otlier  of  them 
would  seek  to  lord  it  over  her." 

Three-fourths  of  these  details  were  of  her  own  invention, 
or  rather — for  it  is  scarcely  fair  to  say  that — they  had  uncon- 
sciously grown  up  in  her  mind  from  the  small  seed  of  the  true 
story.  But  little  Willie  Hart  had  no  distrust  of  any  legend 
that  his  cousin  Judith  might  relate  to  him.  Whatever  Judith 
said  was  true,  and  also  luminous  in  a  strange  kind  of  fashion: 
something  beautiful  and  full  of  color,  to  be  thought  over  and 
pondei'ed  over.  And  now  as  they  walked  along  toward  the 
village,  idly  and  lazily  enough — for  she  had  no  other  errand 
than  to  fetch  back  the  manuscript  that  would  be  lying  at  the 
cottage — his  eyes  were  wistful.  His  fancies  were  far  away. 
What  was  it,  then,  that  he  was  to  do  for  England — that  Ju- 
dith should  approve  in  the  after-years  ?  And  for  how  long 
should  he  be  away — in  the  Spanish  Main,  perchance,  of  which 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  ENGLAND.  211 

he  had  heard  many  stories,  or  fighting  in  the  lowlands  of  Hol- 
land, or  whatever  he  was  called  to  do — and  what  was  there  at 
the  end  ?  Well,  the  end  that  he  foresaw  and  desired— the  re- 
ward of  all  his  toil — was  nothing  more  nor  less  than  this :  that 
he  should  be  sitting  once  again  in  a  pew  in  Stratford  church, 
on  a  quiet  Sunday  morning,  with  Judith  beside  him  as  of  old, 
they  listening  to  the  singing  together.  He  did  not  think  of  his 
being  grown  up,  or  that  she  would  be  other  than  she  was  now. 
His  mind  could  form  no  other  or  fairer  consummation  than 
that — that  would  be  for  him  the  final  good — to  come  back  to 
Stratford  town  to  find  Judith  as  she  had  ever  been  to  him, 
gentle,  and  kind,  and  soft-handed,  and  ready  with  a  smile  from 
her  beautiful  and  lustrous  eyes. 

"Yes,  sweetheart  Willie,"  said  she,  as  they  were  neai'ing  the 
cottages,  "look  at  the  quiet  that  reigns  all  around,  and  no 
priests  of  the  Inquisition  to  come  dragging  my  poor  old  grand- 
mother from  her  knitting.  What  has  she  to  do  but  look  after 
the  garden,  and  scold  the  maid,  and  fetch  milk  for  the  cat  ? 
And  all  this  peace  of  the  land  that  we  enjoy  we  may  have  to 
fight  for  again ;  and  then,  if  the  King's  Majesty  calls  either  for 
men  or  for  money,  you  shall  have  no  word  but  obedience. 
Heard  you  never  of  the  Scotch  knight.  Sir  Patrick  Spens  ? — 
that  the  Scotch  King  would  send  away  to  Norroway  at  an  evil 
time  of  the  year  ?  Did  he  grumble  ?  Did  he  say  his  men  were 
ill  content  to  start  at  such  a  time  ?  Nay,  as  I  have  heard, 
when  he  read  the  King's  letter  the  tears  welled  in  his  eyes; 
but  I'll  be  sworn  that  was  for  the  companions  he  was  taking 
with  him  to  face  the  cruel  sea. 

'  The  King's  daughter  from  Norroway, 
'Tis  we  must  fetch  her  home,' 

he  says;  and  then  they  up  with  their  sails,  and  set  out  from  the 
land  that  they  never  were  to  see  more.  What  of  that  ?  They 
were  brave  men;  they  did  what  was  demanded  of  them; 
though  the  black  seas  of  the  north  were  too  strong  for  them 
in  the  end.     'Twas  a  sad  tale,  in  good  sooth : 

.    '  0  laiifj,  lang  may  the  ladies  sit, 
Wi'  the  fans  into  their  hand, 
Before  they  see  Sir  Patriclc  Spens 
Come  sailing  to  the  strand ! 


213  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

'And  lang,  lang  may  the  maidens  sit, 
Wi'  their  gold  combs  in  their  hair, 
All  waiting  for  their  ain  dear  loves, 
For  them  the}'' 11  see  nae  mair. 

'Half  owre,  half  owre  to  Aberdour, 
'Tis  fifty  fathoms  deep, 
And  there  lies  good  Sir  Patrick  Spens 
Wi'  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feet.' 

But  what  then  ?  I  tell  thee,  sweetheart,  any  maiden  that 
would  be  worth  the  winning  would  a  hundred  times  liefer  wail 
for  a  lover  that  had  died  bravely  than  welcome  him  back  safe 
and  sound  as  a  coward.  You  shall  be  no  coward,  I  warrant 
me,  when  you  are  grown  up  to  be  a  man ;  and  above  all,  as  I 
say,  shall  you  be  gentle  and  forgiving  with  your  mother  Eng- 
land, even  if  your  own  condition  be  not  all  you  wish;  and 
none  the  less  for  that  shall  you  be  willing  to  fight  for  her 
should  she  be  in  trouble.  Nay,  I'll  answer  for  thee,  lad:  I 
know  thee  well." 

"But,  Judith,"  said  he,  "who  are  they  you  speak  of,  that 
are  discontented,  and  would^o  away  and  leave  the  country  ?" 

Well,  it  is  probable  she  might  have  found  some  embarrass- 
ment in  answering  this  question  (if  she  liad  been  pressed  to 
name  names)  but  that  what  she  now  beheld  deprived  her  of 
the  power  of  answering  altogether.  She  had  come  over  from 
the  town  with  no  other  thought  than  to  pay  a  brief  visit  to  her 
grandmother,  and  fetch  back  the  portion  of  the  play,  and  she 
had  not  the  slightest  expectation  of  encountering  Master  Leo- 
fric  Hope.  But  there  unmistakably  he  was,  though  he  did  not 
see  her,  for  he  was  standing  at  the  gate  of  her  grandmother's 
cottage,  and  talking  to  the  old  dame,  who  was  on  the  other  side. 
There  was  no  pretense  of  concealment.  Here  he  was  in  the 
public  path,  idly  chatting,  his  band  resting  on  the  gate.  And 
as  Judith  had  her  cousin  Willie  with  her,  her  first  thought  was 
to  hurry  away  in  any  direction  in  order  to  escape  an  interview ; 
but  directly  she  saw  that  this  was  impossible,  for  lier  grand- 
mother had  descried  her,  if  Leofric  Hope  had  not.  The  con- 
sequence was  that,  as  she  went  forward  to  the  unavoidable 
meeting,  she  was  not  only  surprised  and  a  trifle  confused  and 
anxious,  but  also  somewhat  and  vaguely  resentful;  for  she  had 
been  intending,  before  seeing  him  again,  to  frame  in  her  mind 
certain  tests  which  might  remove  or  confirm  one  or  two  sus- 


VARYING  MOODS.  213 

picions  that  had  caused  her  disquietude.  And  now — and  un- 
fairly, as  she  thought — she  found  herself  compelled  to  meet  him 
without  any  such  legitimate  safeguard  of  preparation.  She 
had  no  time  to  reflect  that  it  was  none  of  his  fault.  Why 
had  not  he  left  the  play  earlier  ?  she  asked  hei'self .  Why  had 
not  he  departed  at  once  ?  Why,  with  all  his  professions  of 
secrecy,  should  he  be  standing  in  the  open  highway,  carelessly 
talking-  ?  And  what  was  she  to  sav  to  little  Willie  Hart  that 
would  prevent  his  carrying  back  the  tale  to  the  school  and 
the  town  ?  When  she  went  forward,  it  was  with  considerable 
reluctance ;  and  she  had  a  dim,  hurt  sense  of  having  been  im- 
posed upon,  or  somehow  or  another  injured. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

VARYING    MOODS. 


But  the  strange  thing  was  that  the  moment  he  turned  and 
saw  her — and  the  moment  she  met  the  quick  look  of  friendliness 
and  frank  admiration  that  came  into  his  face  and  his  eloquent 
dark  eyes — all  her  misgivings,  surmises,  suspicions,  and  half- 
meditated  safeguards  instantly  vanished.  She  herself  could 
not  have  explained  it;  she  only  knew  that,  face  to  face  with 
him,  she  had  no  longer  any  doubt  as  to  his  honesty ;  and  conse- 
quently that  vague  sense  of  injury  vanished  also.  She  had 
been  taken  unawares,  but  she  did  not  mind.  Everything,  in- 
deed, connected  with  this  young  man  was  of  a  startling,  un- 
usual character;  and  she  was  becoming  familiar  with  that, 
and  less  resentful  at  being  surprised. 

"Ah,  fair  Mistress  Judith,"  said  he,  "you  come  opportune- 
ly :  I  would  thank  you  from  the  heart  for  the  gracious  com- 
pany I  have  enjoyed  this  afternoon  through  your  good-will; 
in  truth,  I  was  loath  to  part  with  such  sweet  friends,  and  per- 
chance detained  them  longer  than  I  should." 

"I  scarce  understand  you,  sir,"  said  she,  somewhat  be- 
wildered. 

' '  Not  the  visions  that  haunt  a  certain  magic  island  ?"  said  he. 

Her  face  lit  up. 

"Well,  sir?"  she  asked,  with  a  kind  of  pride;  but  at  this 


214  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

point  her  grandmother  interposed,  and  insisted — somewhat  to 
Judith's  surprise — that  they  shouki  come  in  and  sit  down,  if  not 
in  the  house,  at  least  in  the  garden.  He  seemed  willing 
enough ;  lor  without  a  word  he  opened  the  gate  to  let  Judith 
pass;  and  then  she  told  him  who  her  cousin  was;  and  in  this 
manner  they  went  up  to  the  little  arbor  by  the  hedge. 

"Well,  good  sir,  and  how  liked  you  the  company  ?"  said  she, 
cheerfully,  when  she  had  got  within  and  sat  down. 

Her  grandmother  had  ostensibly  taken  to  her  knitting ;  but 
she  managed  all  the  same  to  keep  a  sharp  eye  on  the  young 
man;  for  she  was  curious,  and  wanted  to  know  something  fur- 
ther of  the  i^arcel  that  he  had  left  with  her.  It  was  aaot  mere- 
ly hospitality  or  a  freak  of  courtesy  that  had  caused  her  to  give 
him  this  sudden  invitation.  Her  granddaughter  Judith  was  a 
self-willed  wench  and  mischievous;  she  would  keep  an  eye 
on  her  too;  she  would  learn  more  of  this  commerce  between 
her  and  the  young  gentleman  who  had  apparently  dropped,  as 
it  were,  from  the  skies.  As  for  little  Willie  Hart,  he  remained 
outside,  regarding  the  stx'anger  with  no  great  good-will;  but 
perhaps  more  with  wonder  than  with  anger,  for  he  marvelled 
to  hear  Judith  talk  familiarly  with  this  person,  of  whom  he  had 
never  heard  a  word,  as  though  she  had  known  him  for  years. 

"  'Tis  not  for  one  such  as  I,"  said  Master  Leofric  Hope,  mod- 
estly— and  with  such  a  friendly  regard  toward  Judith  that  she 
turned  away  her  eyes  and  kept  looking  at  this  and  that  in  the 
garden — "to  speak  of  the  beauties  of  the  work;  I  can  but  tell 
you  of  the  delight  I  have  myself  experienced.  And  yet  how 
can  I  even  do  that  ?  How  can  I  make  you  understand  that — or 
my  gratitude  either,  sweet  Misti'ess  Judith — unless  j'ou  know 
something  of  the  solitude  of  the  life  I  am  compelled  to  lead  ? 
You  would  have  youi^self  to  live  at  Bassfield  Farm  •  and  watch 
the  monotony  of  the  days  there ;  and  be  scarcely  able  to  pass 
the  time :  then  would  you  know  the  delight  of  being  introduced 
to  this  fair  region  that  your  father  hath  invented,  and  being 
permitted  to  hear  those  creatures  of  his  imagination  speak 
to  each  other.  Nay,  but  'tis  beautiful !  I  am  no  critical  judge ; 
but  I  swear  'twill  charm  the  town." 

"You  think  so,  sir?"  said  she,  eagerly,  and  for  an  instant 
she  withdrew  her  eyes  from  the  contemplation  of  the  flowers. 
But  immediately  she  altered  her  tone  to  one  of  calm  indiffer- 


VARYING  MOODS.  215 

ence.  ' '  My  father  hath  many  affairs  to  engage  him,  you  must 
understand,  good  sir;  perchance,  now,  this  phxy  is  not  such  as 
he  woukl  have  written  had  he  leisure,  and— and  had  he  heen 
commanded  by  the  court,  and  the  like.  Perchance  'tis  too 
much  of  the  human  kind  for  such  purposes  ?" 
"I  catch  not  your  meaning,  sweet  lady,"  said  he. 
' '  I  was  thinking, "  said  she,  calmly,  ' '  of  the  masques  you  told 
us  of— at  Theobald's  andelsewhere— that  Master  Benjamin  Jon- 
son  has  written,  and  that  they  all  seem  to  prize  so  highly:  per- 
chance these  were  of  a  finer  stuff  than  my  father  hath  time  to 
think  of,  being  occupied,  as  it  were,  with  so  many  cares.  'Tis 
a  rude  life,  having  regard  to  horses,  and  lands,  and  malt,  and 
the  rest;  and— and  the  court  ladies— they  would  rather  have 
the  gods  and  goddesses  marching  in  procession,  would  they 
not  ?  My  father's  writing  is  too  much  of  the  common  kind,  is 
it  not,  good  sir  ?— 'tis  more  for  the  'prentices,  one  might  say, 
and  such  as  these  ?" 

He  glanced  at  her.  He  was  not  sure  of  her. 
"The  King,  sweet  lady,"  said  he,  "is  himself  learned,  and 
would  have  the  court  familiar  with  the  ancient  tongues;  and 
for  such  pageants  'tis  no  wonder  they  employ  Master  Jonson, 
that  is  a  great  scholar.  But  surely  you  place  not  such  things 
— that  are  but  as  toys— by  the  side  of  your  father's  plays,  that 
all  marvel  at,  and  applaud,  aad  that  have  driven  away  all  oth- 
ers from  our  stage  ?" 

"  Say  you  so  ?"  she  answered,  with  the  same  indifferent  de- 
meanor. "Nay,  I  thought  that  Master  Scoloker — was  that  his 
worship's  name  ? — deemed  tliem  to  be  of  the  vulgar  sort.  But 
perchance  he  was  one  of  the  learned  ones.  The  King,  they 
say,  is  often  minded  to  speak  in  the  Latin.  What  means  he 
by  that,  good  sir,  think  you  ?  Hath  he  not  yet  had  time  to 
learn  our  English  speech  V 

"Wench,  what  would  you?"  her  grandmother  interposed, 
sharply.  "  Nay,  good  sir,  heed  her  not;  her  tongue  be  an  un- 
ruly member,  and  maketh  sport  of  her,  as  I  think;  but  the 
wench  meaneth  no  harm." 

"The  King  is  proud  of  his  learning,  no  doubt,"  said  he;  and 
he  would  probably  have  gone  on  to  deprecate  any  comparison 
between  the  court  masques  and  her  father's  plays  but  that  she 
saw  here  her  opportunity,  and  interrui)ted  him. 


216  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

"I  know  it,"  she  said,  "for  the  letter  that  the  King  sent  to 
my  father  is  wx-it  in  the  Latin." 

"Nay,  is  it  so  ?"  said  he. 

She  affected  not  to  observe  his  surprise. 

"  'Twas  all  the  same  to  my  father,"  she  continued,  calmly, 
"whether  the  letter  was  in  one  tongue  or  the  other.  He  hath 
one  book  now — how  is  it  called  ? — 'tis  a  marvellous  heap  of 
old  stories — the  Jests — " 

' '  Not  the  Gesta  Romanorum  f  he  said. 

"The  same,  as  I  think.  Well,  he  hath  one  copy  that  is  in 
English,  and  of  our  own  time,  as  I  am  told ;  but  lie  hath  also 
another  and  a  very  ancient  copy,  that  is  in  the  Latin  tongue; 
and  this  it  is — the  Latin  one,  good  sir  —  that  my  father  is 
fondest  of;  and  many  a  piece  of  merriment  he  will  get  out  of 
it,  when  Julius  Shawe  is  in  the  house  of  an  evening." 

"  But  the  Gesta  are  not  jests,  good  Mistress  Judith, "said  he, 
looking  somewhat  puzzled. 

"I  know  not;  I  but  hear  them  laughing," said  she,  placidly. 
"And  as  for  the  book  itself,  all  I  know  of  it  is  the  outside;  but 
that  is  right  strange  and  ancient,  and  beautiful  withal:  the 
back  of  it  white  leather  stamped  with  curious  devices;  and  the 
sides  of  parchment  printed  in  letters  of  red  and  black ;  and  the 
silver  clasps  of  it  with  each  a  boar's  head.  I  have  heard  say 
that  that  is  the  crest  of  the  Scotch  knight  that  gave  the  volume 
to  my  father  when  they  were  all  at  Aberdeen;  'twas  when 
they  made  Laurence  Fletcher  a  burgess ;  and  the  knight  said  to 
my  father,  '  Good  sir,  the  honor  to  your  comrade  is  a  general 
one,- but  I  would  have  you  take  this  book  in  particular,  in  the 
way  of  thanks  and  remembrance  for  your  wit  and  pleasant 
company' — that,  or  something  like  that,  said  he ;  and  my  father 
is  right  proud  of  the  book,  that  is  very  ancient  and  precious; 
and  often  he  will  read  out  of  it — though  it  be  in  the  Latin 
tongue.  Oh,  I  assure  you,  sir,"  she  added,  wuth  a  calm  and 
proud  air,  "'tis  quite  the  same  thing  to  him.  If  the  King 
choose  to  write  to  him  in  that  tongue,  well  and  good.  Marry, 
now  I  think  of  it,  I  make  no  doubt  that  Julius  Shawe  would 
lend  me  the  letter,  did  you  care  to  see  it." 

He  looked  up  quickly  and  eagerly. 

' '  Goes  your  goodness  so  far,  sweet  Mistress  Judith  ?  Would 
you  do  me  such  a  favor  and  honor  ?" 


VARYING  MOODS.  217 

"Nay,  yoimg  sir,  "the  grandmother  said,  looking  up  from  her 
knitting,  ' '  tempt  not  the  wench ;  she  be  too  ready  to  do  mad 
things  out  of  her  own  mind.  And  you,  grandchild,  see  you 
meddle  not  in  your  father's  affairs." 

"Why,  grandam,"  Judith  cried,  " 'tis  the  common  proper- 
ty of  Stratford  town.  Any  one  that  goeth  into  Julius  Shawe's 
house  may  see  it.  And  why  Julius  Shawe's  friends  only  ?  Be- 
shrew  me,  there  are  others  who  have  as  good  a  title  to  that  let- 
ter— little  as  my  father  valueth  it." 

"Nay,  I  will  forego  the  favor,"  said  he  at  once,  "though  I 
owe  you  none  the  less  thanks,  dear  lady,  for  the  intention  of 
your  kindness.  In  truth,  I  know  not  how  to  make  you  sensi- 
ble of  what  I  already  owe  you ;  for,  having  made  acquaintance 
with  those  fair  creations,  how  can  one  but  long  to  hear  of  what 
further  befell  them  ?  My  prayer  would  rather  go  in  that  di- 
rection—if I  might  make  so  bold." 

He  regarded  her  now  with  a  timid  look.  Well,  she  had  not 
undertaken  that  he  should  see  the  whole  of  the  play,  nor  had 
she  ever  hinted  to  him  of  any  such  possibility,  but  it  had  been 
in  her  mind,  and  for  the  life  of  her  she  could  not  see  any  harm 
in  this  brief  loan  of  it.  Harm  ?  Had  not  even  tliis  brief  por- 
tion of  it  caused  him  to  think  of  her  father's  creations  as  if  tliey 
were  of  a  far  more  marvellous  nature  than  the  trumpery  court 
performances  that  had  engrossed  his  talk  when  first  she  met 
him? 

"There  might  be  some  difficulty,  good  sir,"  said  she,  "but 
methinks  I  could  obtain  for  you  the  further  portions,  if  my 
good  grandmother  here  would  receive  them  and  hand  them  to 
you  when  occasion  served." 

"  What's  that,  wench  ?"  her  grandmother  said,  instantly. 

" 'Tis  but  a  book,  good  grandam,  that  I  would  lend  Master 
Hope  to  lighten  the  dullness  of  his  life  at  the  farm  withal: 
you  can  not  have  any  objection,  grandmother  ?" 

"'Tis  a  new  trade  to  find  thee  in,  wench,"  said  her  grand- 
mother. "I'd  'a  thouglit  thou  wert  moi-e  like  to  have  secret 
commerce  in  laces  and  silks." 

"I  am  no  peddler,  good  madam,"  said  he,  with  a  smile; 
"  else  could  I  find  no  pleasanter  way  of  passing  the  time  tlian 
in  showing  to  you  and  your  fair  granddaughter  my  store  of 
braveries.     Nay,  this  that  I  would  beg  of  you  is  but  to  keep 

9* 


218  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

the  book  until  I  have  the  chance  to  call  for  it ;  and  that  is  a 
kindness  you  have  already  shown  in  taking  charge  of  the  lit- 
tle package  I  left  for  Mistress  Judith  here." 

"Well,  well,  Avell,"  said  the  old  dame,  "if  'tis  anything  be- 
longing to  her  father,  see  you  bring  it  back,  and  let  not  the 
wench  get  into  trouble." 

"I  think  you  may  trust  me  so  far,  good  madam,"  said  he, 
with  such  simplicity  of  courtesy  and  sincerity  that  even  the 
old  grandmother  was  satisfied. 

In  truth  she  had  been  regarding  the  two  of  them  with  some 
sharpness  during  these  few  minutes  to  see  if  she  could  detect 
anything  in  their  manner  that  might  awaken  suspicion. 
There  was  nothing.  No  doubt  the  young  gentleman  regarded 
Judith  with  an  uiidisguised  wish  to  be  friendly  with  her,  and 
say  pretty  things ;  but  was  that  to  be  wondered  at  ?  'Twas 
not  all  the  lads  in  Stratford  that  would  be  so  modest  in  showing 
their  admiration  for  a  -winsome  lass.  And  this  book-lending 
commerce  was  but  natural  in  the  circumstances.  She  would 
have  been  well  content  to  hear  that  his  affairs  permitted  him 
to  leave  the  neighborhood,  and  that  would  happen  in  good 
tide;  meanwhile  there  could  be  no  great  harm  in  being  civil 
to  so  well-behaved  a  young  gentleman.  So  now,  as  she  had 
satisfied  herself  that  the  leaving  of  the  package  meant  nothing 
dark  or  dangerous,  she  rose  and  hobbled  away  in  search  of  the 
little  maid,  to  see  that  some  ale  were  brought  out  for  the  re- 
fi'eshment  of  her  visitor. 

"Sweetheart  Willie,"  Judith  called,  "  what  have  you  there  ? 
Come  hither!" 

Her  small  cousin  had  got  hold  of  the  cat,  and  w^as  vainly 
endeavoring  to  teach  it  to  jump  over  his  clasped  hands.  He 
took  it  up  in  his  arms,  and  brought  it  with  him  to  the  arbor, 
though  he  did  not  look  in  the  direction  of  the  strange  gentle- 
man. 

"We  shall  be  setting  forth  for  home  directly,"  said  she. 
"  Wilt  thou  not  sit  down  and  rest  thee  ?" 

"  'Tis  no  such  distance,  cousin,"  said  he. 

He  seemed  unwilling  to  come  in ;  he  kept  stroking  the  cat, 
with  his  head  averted.  So  she  went  out  to  him,  and  put  her 
arm  round  his  neck. 

"This,  sir,"  said  she,  "is  my  most  constant  companion,  next 


VARYING  MOODS.  219 

to  Prudence  Sliawe ;  I  know  not  to  what  part  of  all  this  neigh- 
borhood we  have  not  wandered  together.  And  such  e^^es  he 
hath  for  the  birds'  nests ;  when  I  can  see  naught  but  a  cloud  of 
leaves  he  will  say,  why,  "tis  so  and  so,  or  so  and  so;  and  up 
the  tree  like  a  squirrel,  and  down  again  with  one  of  the  eggs, 
or  perchance  a  small  naked  birdling,  to  show  me.  But  we  al- 
ways put  them  back,  sweetheart,  do  we  not  ?— we  leave  no  bereft 
families,  or  sorrowing  mother  bird  to  find  an  empty  nest.  We 
do  as  Vie  would  be  done  by ;  and  'tis  no  harm  to  them  that  we 
should  look  at  the  pretty  blue  eggs,  or  take  out  one  of  the  small 
chicks  with  its  downy  feathers  and  its  gaping  bill.  And  for  the 
fishing,  too— there  be  none  cleverer  at  setting  a  line,  as  I  hear, 
or  more  patient  in  watching:  but  I  like  not  that  pastime, good 
Cousin  Willie,  for  or  soon  or  late  you  are  certain  to  fall 
through  the  bu.shes  into  the  river,  as  happened  to  Dickie  Page 
last  week,  and  there  may  not  be  some  one  there  to  haul  you  out, 
as  they  hauled  out  him.'' 

"And  how  fares  he  at  the  school?''  said  the  young  gentle- 
man in  the  arbor. 

"Oh,  excellent  well,  as  I  am  told,"  said  she,  "although  I  be 
no  judge  of  lessons  myself.  Marry,  I  hear  good  news  of  his 
behavior;  and  if  there  be  a  bloody  nose  now  and  again,  why, 
a  boy  that's  attacked  must  hold  his  own,  and  give  as  good  as  he 
gets— 'twere  a  marvel  else— and  'tis  no  use  making  furious  over 
it,  for  who  knows  how  the  quarrel  began  ?  Nay,  I  will  give 
my  cousin  a  character  for  being  as  gentle  as  any,  and  as  rea- 
sonable; and  if  he  fought  with  Master  Crutchley's  boy,  and 
hit  him  full  sore,  I  fear,  between  the  eyes— well,  liaving  heard 
something  of  the  matter,  I  make  no  doubt  it  served  young 
Crutch  ley  right,  and  that  elder  people  should  have  a  care  in 
condemning  when  they  can  not  know  the  beginning  of  the 
quarrel.  Well,  now  I  bethink  me,  sweetheart,  tell  me  how 
it  began,  for  that  I  never  heard.     How  began  the  quarrel  ?" 

"Nay,  'twas  nothing,"  he  said,  shamefacedly. 

"Nothing?  Nay,  that  I  will  not  believe.  I  should  not 
wonder  now  if  it  were  about  some  little  wench.  What  ?  Nay, 
I'll  swear  it  now !  'Twas  about  the  little  wench  that  has  come 
to  live  at  the  Vicarage— what's  her  name?— Minnie,  or  Win- 
nie ?" 

"'Twas  not,  then,  Judith,"  said  he.      "If  you  must  know, 


220  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

I  will  tell  you ;  I  had  liefer  say  naught  about  it.  But  'twas  not 
the  first  time  he  had  said  so — before  all  of  them — that  my  un- 
cle was  no  better  than  an  idle  player,  that  ought  to  be  put  in 
the  stocks  and  whipj)ed." 

"Why,  now,"  said  she,  "to  think  that  the  poor  lad's  nose 
should  be  set  a-bleeding-  for  notliing  more  than  that !" 

' '  It  had  been  said  more  than  once.  Cousin  Judith ;  'twas  time 
it  should  end,"  said  he,  simply. 

At  this  moment  Master  Leofric  Hope  called  to  him. 

"  Come  hither,  my  lad,"  said  he.  "I  would  hear  how  you 
get  on  at  school." 

The  small  lad  turned  and  regai'ded  him,  but  did  not  budge. 
His  demeanor  was  entirely  changed.  "With  Judith  he  was  in- 
variably gentle,  submissive,  abashed:  now,  as  he  looked  at  the 
stranger,  he  seemed  to  resent  the  summons. 

"  Come  hither,  my  lad." 

"  Thank  you,  no,  sir,"he  said;  "I  would  as  lief  be  here." 

"  Sweetheart,  be  these  your  manners  ?"  Judith  said. 

But  the  young  gentleman  only  laughed  good-naturedly. 

"Didst  thou  find  any  such  sjieeches  in  the  Sententice  Pu- 
eriles  ?"  said  he.     ' '  They  were  not  there  when  I  was  at  school. " 

"When  go  we  back  to  Stratford,  Judith  ?"  said  the  boy. 

"Presently,  presently,"  said  she  (with  some  vague  imjares- 
sion  that  she  could  not  well  leave  until  her  grandmother's 
guest  showed  signs  of  going  also).  "  See,  here  is  my  graudam 
coming  with  vai'ious  things  for  us;  and  I  warrant  me  you 
shall  find  some  gingerbread  amongst  them." 

The  old  dame  and' the  little  maid  now  came  along,  bi'inging 
with  them  ale  and  jugs  and  spiced  bread  and  what  not,  which 
were  forthwith  put  on  the  small  table ;  and  though  Judith  did 
not  care  to  partake  of  these,  and  was  rather  wishful  to  set  out 
homeward  again,  still,  in  common  courtesy,  she  was  compelled 
to  enter  the  arbor  and  sit  down.  Moreover,  Master  Hope  seem- 
ed in  no  hurry  to  go.  It  was  a  pleasant  evening,  the  heat  of 
the  day  being  over;  the  skies  were  clear,  fair,  and  lambent 
with  the  declining  golden  light:  why  should  one  hasten  away 
from  this  quiet  bower,  in  the  sweet  serenity  and  silence,  with 
the  perfume  of  roses  all  around,  and  scarce  a  breath  of  air  to 
stir  the  leaves  ?  He  but  played  witli  this  slight  refection ;  nev- 
ertheless, it  was  a  kind  of  excuse  for  the  starting  of  fresh  talk ; 


VARYING  MOODS.  221 

and  his  talk  was  interesting  and  animated.  Then  he  had  dis- 
covered a  sure  and  easy  way  of  pleasing  Judith,  and  instantly 
gaining  her  attention.  When  he  S])oke  of  the  doings  in  Lon- 
don, her  father  ^yas  no  longer  left  out  of  these :  nay,  on  the 
contrary,  he  became  a  central  figure ;  and  she  learned  more 
now  of  the  Globe  and  Blackfriars  theatres  than  ever  she  had 
heard  in  her  life  before.  Nor  did  she  fail  to  lead  him  on  with 
questions.  Which  of  her  father's  friends  were  most  constant 
attendants  at  the  theati'e  ?  Doubtless  they  had  chairs  set  for 
them  on  the  stage  ?  Was  there  any  one  that  her  father  singled 
out  for  especial  favor  ?  When  they  went  to  the  tavern  in  the 
evening,  what  place  had  her  father  at  the  board  ?  Did  any  of  the 
young  lords  go  with  them?  How  late  sat  they?  Did  her  fa- 
ther outshine  them  all  with  his  wit  and  merriment,  or  did  he 
sit  quiet  and  amused  ? — for  sometimes  it  was  the  one  and  some- 
times the  other  with  him  here  in  Stratford.  Did  they  in  Lon- 
don know  that  he  had  such  a  goodly  house,  and  rich  lands,  and 
horses  ?  And  was  there  good  cooking  at  the  tavern — Portugal 
dishes  and  the  like  ?  Or  pex'chance  (she  asked,  with  an  inquir- 
ing look  from  tlie  beautiful,  clear  eyes)  it  was  rather  poor? 
And  the  napery,  now :  it  was  not  always  of  the  cleanest  ?  And 
instead  of  neat-handed  maids,  rude  serving-men,  tapsters,  draw- 
ers, and  so  forth  ?  And  the  ale — she  could  be  sworn  'twas  no 
better  than  the  Warwicksliireale;  no,  nor  was  the  claret  likely 
to  be  better  than  tliat  brought  into  the  country  for  the  gentle- 
folk by  such  noted  vintnei-s  as  Quiney.  Her  father's  lodging — 
that  he  said  was  well  enough,  as  he  said  everything  was  well 
enough,  for  she  had  never  known  him  utter  a  word  of  discon- 
tent with  anytliing  that  happened  to  him — perchance  'twas 
none  of  the  cleanliest  ?  for  slie  had  heard  that  the  London 
housewives  were  mostly  slovens,  and  would  close  you  doors  and 
windows  against  the  air,  so  that  a  countryman  going  to  that 
town  was  like  to  be  sickened.  And  her  father — did  he  ever 
speak  of  his  family  when  he  was  in  London  ?  Did  they  know 
he  had  belongings  ?  Nay,  slie  was  certain  he  must  have  talk- 
ed to  his  friends  and  familiars  of  little  Bess  Hall,  for  how 
could  he  help  that  ? 

"  You  forget,  sweet  Mistress  Judith,"  said  he,  in  his  pleasant 
way,  "that  I  liave  not  the  honor  of  your  father's  friondship, 
nor  of  his  acquaintance  even,  and  what  I  have  told  you  is  all 


222  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE, 

of  hearsay,  save  with  regard  to  the  theatre,  where  I  have  seen 
him  often.  And  that  is  the  general  consent:  that  this  one 
may  have  more  learning,  and  that  one  more  sharpness  of  re- 
tort, hut  that  in  these  encounters  he  hath  a  grace  and  a  brill- 
iancy far  outvying  them  all,  and,  moreover,  with  such  a  gen- 
tleness as  earns  him  the  general  good-will.  Such  is  the  report 
of  him ;  I  would  it  had  been  in  my  power  to  speak  from  my 
own  experience." 

"But  that  time  will  come,  good  sir,"  said  she,  "and  soon,  I 
trust." 

"  In  the  mean  while,"  said  he,  "bethink  you  what  a  favor  it 
is  that  I  should  be  permitted  to  come  into  communion  with  those 
fair  creations  of  his  fancy;  and  I  would  remind  you  once  more 
of  your  promise,  sweet  Mistress  Judith;  and  would  beseech 
your  good  grandmother  to  take  charge  of  anything  you  may 
leave  for  me.  Nay,  'twill  be  for  no  longer  than  an  hour  or 
two  that  I  would  detain  it;  but  that  brief  time  I  would  have 
free  from  distractions,  so  that  the  mind  may  dwell  on  the  pic- 
ture. Do  I  make  too  bold,  sweet  lady  ?  Or  does  your  friend- 
ship go  so  far  ?" 

"In  truth,  sir,"  she  answered,  readily,  "  if  I  can  I  will  bring 
you  the  rest  of  the  play — but  perchance  in  portions,  as  the  oc- 
casion serves;  'twere  no  great  harm  should  you  carry  away 
with  you  some  memory  of  the  Duke  and  his  fair  daughter  on 
the  island." 

"The  time  will  pass  slowly  until  I  hear  more  of  them," 
said  he. 

' '  And  meanwhile,  good  grandmother,"  said  she,  "  if  you  will 
tell  me  where  I  may  find  the  little  package,  methinks  I  must 
be  going." 

At  this  he  rose. 

"I  beseech  your  pardon  if  I  have  detained  you,  sweet  lady," 
said  he,  with  much  courtesy. 

"Nay,  sir,  I  am  indebted  to  you  for  welcome  news,"  she  an- 
swered, "and  I  would  I  had  longer  opportunity  of  hearing. 
And  what  said  you — that  he  outshone  them  all  ? — that  it  was 
the  general  consent  ?" 

"  Can  you  doubt  it  ?"  he  said,  gallantly. 

"Nay,  sir,  we  of  his  own  houseliold — and  his  friends  in 
Stratford — we  know  and  see  what  my  father  is :  so  well  esteem- 


VARYING  MOODS.  223 

ed,  in  truth,  as  Julius  Shawe  saith,  that  there  is  not  a  man  in 
Warwickshire  would  cheat  him  in  the  selling  of  a  horse,  which 
they  are  not  slow  to  do,  as  I  hear,  with  others.  But  I  knew 
not  he  had  won  so  wide  and  general  a  report  in  London, 
where  they  might  know  him  not  so  well  as  we." 

"Let  me  assure  you  of  that,  dear  lady,"  he  said,  "and  also 
that  I  will  not  forget  to  bring  or  send  you  the  printed  tribute 
to  his  good  qualities  that  I  spoke  of,  when  that  I  may  with 
safety  go  to  London.  'Tis  but  a  trifle;  but  it  may  interest 
his  family ;  marry,  I  wonder  he  hath  not  himself  spoken  of  it 
to  you." 

' '  He  speak  of  it !"  said  she,  regai'ding  him  with  some  sur- 
prise, as  if  he  ought  to  have  known  better.  "  We  scarce  know 
aught  of  what  happeneth  to  him  in  London.  When  he  comes 
home  to  Warwickshire  it  would  seem  as  if  he  had  forgotten 
London  and  all  its  affairs,  and  left  them  behind  for  good." 

"  Left  them  behind  for  good,  say  you,  wench  ?"  the  old  dame  • 
grumbled,  mostly  to  herself,  as  she  preceded  them  down  the 
path.  "  I  would  your  father  had  so  much  sense.  What  hath 
he  to  gain  more  among  the  players  and  dicers  and  tavern  braw- 
lers and  that  idle  crew  ?  Let  him  bide  at  home,  among  re- 
spectable folk.  Hath  he  not  enough  of  gear  gathered  round 
him,  eh?  It  be  high  time  he  slipped  loose  from  those  mum- 
mers that  play  to  please  the  cutpurses  and  their  trulls  in  Lon- 
don.    Hath  he  not  enougli  of  gear  V 

"What  say  you,  grandmother?  You  would  have  my  fa- 
ther come  away  from  London  and  live  always  in  Warwick- 
shire ?  Well,  now,  that  is  nearer  than  you  think,  or  my  guess- 
es are  wrong." 

But  her  grandmother  had  gone  into  the  cottage ;  and  pre- 
sently she  returned  with  the  little  package.  Then  there  was  a 
general  leave-taking  at  the  gate ;  and  Leofric  Hope,  after  many 
expressions  of  his  thanks  and  good-will,  set  out  on  his  own 
way,  Judith  and  her  cousin  taking  the  path  through  the 
meadows. 

For  some  time  they  walked  in  silence;  then,  as  soon  as  the 
stranger  was  out  of  ear-shot,  the  lad  looked  up  and  said, 

"  Who  is  that,  Judith  ?" 

"Why,"  said  slie,  lightly,  "I  scarcely  know  myself;  but 
that  he  is  in  misfortune  and  hiding,  and  that  he  knoweth  cer- 


224  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

tain  of  my  father's  friends,  and  that  he  seems  pleased  to  have 
a  few  words  with  one  or  other  of  us  to  cheer  his  solitude. 
You  would  not  begrudge  so  much,  sweetheart  ?  Nay,  there  is 
more  than  that  I  would  liave  you  do:  his  safety  depends  on 
there  being  no  talk  about  him  in  the  town ;  and  I  know  you  can 
keep  a  secret,  Cousin  Willie;  so  you  must  not  say  a  word  to 
any  one — whether  at  school,  or  at  home,  or  at  New  Place — of 
your  having  seen  him.  You  will  do  as  much  for  my  sake, 
sweetheart  ?" 

"Yes;  but  why  for  your  sake,  cousin  ?"  said  the  boy,  look- 
ing up.      "  Why  should  you  concern  yourself  V 

"Nay,  call  it  for  anybody's  sake,  then,"  said  she.  "But  I 
would  not  have  him. betrayed  by  any  one  that  I  had  aught  to 
do  with — and  least  of  all  by  you,  sweetheart,  that  I  expect  to 
show  nothing  but  fair  and  manly  parts.  Nay,  I  trust  you. 
You  will  not  blab." 

And  then,  as  they  walked  on,  it  occuri-ed  to  her  that  this 
young  gentleman's  secret — if  he  wished  it  kept — was  becoming 
somewhat  widely  extended  in  his  neighborhood.  In  her  own 
small  circle  how  many  already  knew  of  his  i)resence?  —  her 
grandmother.  Prudence  Shawe,  herself,  Tom  Quiney,  and  now 
this  little  Willie  Hart.  And  she  could  not  but  remember  that 
not  much  more  than  half  an  hour  ago  she  had  seen  him  at  the 
garden  gate,  carelessly  chatting,  and  apparently  not  heeding 
in  the  least  what  passers-by  might  observe  him.  But  that  was 
always  the  way:  when  she  left  him,  when  she  was  with  her 
own  thoughts,  curious  surmises  would  cross  her  mind;  where- 
as, when  she  met  him,  these  were  at  once  discarded.  And  so 
she  took  to  arguing  with  herself  as  to  why  she  should  be  so 
given  to  do  this  young  man  injustice  in  his  absence,  when, 
every  time  she  encountered  him  face  to  face  she  was  more  than 
ever  convinced  of  his  honesty.  Fascination?  Well,  she  liked 
to  hear  of  London  town  and  the  goings  on  there;  and  this 
evening  she  had  been  particularly  interested  in  hearing  about 
the  Globe  Theatre,  and  the  spectators,  and  the  tavern  to  which 
her  father  and  his  friends  repaired  for  their  supper;  but  sure- 
ly that  would  not  blind  her  if  she  had  any  reason  to  think 
that  the  young  man  was  other  than  he  represented  ?  And 
then,  again,  this  evening  he  had  been  markedly  deferential. 
There  was  nothing  in  his  manner  of  that  somewhat  too  open 


VARYING  MOODS.  225 

gallantry  lie  had  displayed  in  the  morning  when  he  made  his 
speech  about  the  English  roses.  Had  she  not  wronged  him, 
then,  in  imagining  even  for  a  moment  that  he  had  played  a 
trick  upon  her  in  order  to  make  her  acquaintance  ?  It  is  true, 
she  had  forgotten  to  make  special  remark  of  his  eyes,  as  to 
whether  they  were  like  those  of  the  wizard;  for  indeed  the 
suspicion  had  gone  clean  out  of  her  mind.  But  now  she 
tried  to  recall  them ;  and  she  could  not  fairly  say  to  herself 
that  there  was  a  resemblance.  Nay,  the  wizard  was  a  solemn 
person,  who  seemed  to  rebuke  her  light-heartedness ;  he  spoke 
gravely  and  slow;  whereas  this  young  man,  as  any  one  could 
see,  had  a  touch  of  merriment  in  his  eye  that  was  ready  to  de- 
clare itself  on  further  acquaintance,  only  that  his  deference 
kept  him  subdued,  Avhile  his  talk  was  light  and  animated  and 
rapid.  No,  she  would  absolve  him  from  this  suspicion ;  and 
soon,  indeed,  as  she  guessed,  he  would  absolve  himself  by  re- 
moving from  the  neighborhood,  and  probably  she  would  hear 
no  more  of  him,  unless,  perchance,  he  should  remember  to 
send  her  that  piece  of  print  concerning  her  fathei'. 

A; id  then  lier  thoughts  went  far  afield.  She  had  heard 
much  of  London  that  evening;  and  London,  in  her  mind,  was 
chiefly  associated  with  her  father's  plays,  or  such  as  she  knew 
of  them;  and  these  again  were  represented  to  her  by  a  succes- 
sion of  figures,  whose  words  she  thought  of,  whose  faces  she 
saw,  when,  as  now,  her  fancies  were  distant.  And  she  was 
more  silent  than  usual  as  they  went  on  their  way  across  the 
meadows,  and  scarce  addressed  a  word  to  her  companion ;  inso- 
much that  at  last  he  looked  uj)  into  lier  face,  and  said, 

"Judith,  why  ai'e  you  so  sad  this  evening?" 

"  Sad,  sweetheart?  Surely  no,"  she  answered;  and  she  put 
her  liand  on  liis  head.     "What  makes  thee  think  so  ?" 

"Did  Dame  Hathaway  speak  harshly  to  you?"  said  he. 
"  Methought  I  heard  her  say  something.  Another  time  I  will 
bid  her  hold  her  peace." 

"Nay,  nay,  not  so,"  said  she;  and  as  they  were  now  come 
to  a  stile,  she  i>aused  there,  and  drew  the  boy  toward  her. 

Not  that  she  was  tired ;  but  the  evening  was  so  quiet  and  still, 
and  the  whole  world  seemed  falling  into  a  gentle  repose. 
There  was  not  a  sound  near  them ;  the  earth  was  hushed  as  it 
sank  to  sleep;  far  away  they  could  hear  the  voices  of  children 


226  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

going  home  with  their  parents,  or  the  distant  barking  of  a 
dog.  It  was  late,  and  yet  the  skies  seemed  full  of  light,  and  all 
the  objects  around  them  were  strangely  distinct  and  vivid. 
Behind  them,  the  northwestern  heavens  were  of  a  pale  lumi- 
nous gold;  overhead  and  in  front  of  them,  the  great  vault 
was  of  a  beautiful  lilac-gray,  deepening  to  blue  in  the  sombre 
east ;  and  into  this  lambent  twilight  the  great  black  elms  rose 
in  heavy  masses.  The  wide  meadows  still  caught  some  of  the 
dying  radiance ;  and  there  was  a  touch  of  it  on  the  westward- 
looking  gables  of  one  or  two  cottages ;  and  then  through  this 
softened  glow  there  came  a  small  keen  ray  of  lemon  yellow — a 
light  in  one  of  the  far-off  windows  that  burned  there  like  a 
star.  So  hushed  this  night  was,  and  so  calm  and  beautiful, 
that  a  kind  of  wistf  ulness  fell  over  her  mind— scarcely  sadness, 
as  the  boy  had  imagined — but  a  dull  longing  for  sympathy, 
and  some  vague  wonder  as  to  what  her  life  might  be  in  the 
years  to  come. 

"Why,  sweetheart,"  said  she,  absently,  and  her  hand  lay  af- 
fectionately on  his  shoulder,  "as  we  came  along  here  this 
evening  we  were  speaking  of  all  that  was  to  happen  to  you  in 
after-life ;  and  do  you  never  think  you  would  like  to  have  the 
picture  unrolled  now,  and  see  for  yourself,  and  have  assurance  ? 
Does  not  the  mystery  of  it  make  you  impatient,  or  restless,  or 
sad — so  that  you  would  fain  have  the  years  go  by  quick,  and 
get  to  the  end?  Nay,  I  trow  not;  the  day  and  the  hour  are 
sufficient  for  thee ;  and  'tis  better  so.  Keep  as  thou  art,  sweet- 
heart, and  pay  no  heed  to  what  may  hereafter  happen  to  thee." 

"What  is't  that  ti'oubles  you,  Judith  ?"  said  he,  with  an  in- 
stinctive sympathy,  for  there  was  moi'e  in  her  voice  than  in 
her  words. 

"Why,  I  know  not  myself,"  said  she,  slowly,  and  with  her 
eyes  fixed  vacantly  on  the  darkening  landscape.  "Nothing, 
as  I  reckon.  'Tis  but  beating  one's  wings  against  the  invisible 
to  seek  to  know  even  to-morrow.  And  in  the  further  years 
some  will  have  gone  away  from  Stratford,  and  some  to  far 
countries,  and  some  will  be  married,  and  some  grown  old; 
but  to  all  the  end  will  be  the  same ;  and  I  dare  say  now  that, 
hundreds  of  years  hence,  other  people  will  be  coming  to  Strat- 
ford, and  they  will  go  into  the  church-yard  there,  and  walk 
about  and  look  at  the  names — that  is,  of  you  and  me  and  all 


VARYING  MOODS.  227 

the  rest  of  us— and  they  will  say,  '  Poor  things,  they  vexed 
themselves  about  very  small  matters  while  they  were  alive, 
but  they  are  all  at  peace  at  last.'  " 

"But  what  is  it  that  troubles  you,  Judith?"  said  he;  for 
this  was  an  unusual  mood  with  her,  who  generally  was  so 
thoughtless  and  merry  and  high-hearted. 

"Why,  nothing,  sweetheart,  nothing,"  said  she,  seeming  to 
rouse  herself.  "  'Tis  the  quiet  of  the  night  that  is  so  strange, 
and  the  darkness  coming.  Or  will  there  be  moonlight?  In 
truth,  there  must  be,  and  getting  near  to  the  full,  as  I  reckon. 
A  night  for  Jessica !     Heard  you  ever  of  her,  sweetheart  ?" 

"No,  Judith." 

"Well,  she  was  a  fair  maiden  that  lived  long  ago,  some- 
where in  Italy,  as  I  think.  And  she  ran  away  with  her  lover, 
and  was  married  to  him,  and  was  very  happy ;  and  all  that  is 
now  known  of  her  is  connected  with  music  and  moonlight 
and  an  evening  such  as  this.  Is  not  that  a  fair  life  to  lead 
after  death:  to  be  in  all  men's  thoughts  always  as  a  happy 
bride,  on  such  a  still  night  as  this  is  now?  And  would  you 
know  how  her  lover  spoke  to  her  ? — this  is  what  he  says : 

'  How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank ! 
Here  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  to  our  ears ;    soft  stillness  and  the  night 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 
Sit,  Jessica:  Look,  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold ; 
There's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  behold'st 
But  ill  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubims : 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls ; 
But,  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Dotli  grossly  close  it  in,  we  can  not  hear  it. — 
Come,  ho,  and  wake  Diana  with  a  hymn  ; 
With  sweetest  touches  pierce  your  mistress'  ear, 
And  draw  her  home  with  music.' 

Is  not  that  a  gentle  speech?  And  so  shall  you  speak  to  your 
bride,  sweetheart,  in  the  years  to  come,  when  you  have  wooed 
her  and  won  her.  And  then  you  will  tell  her  that  if  she  loves 
you  not — ay,  and  if  she  loves  you  not  dearly  and  well — then  is 
she  not  like  one  tliat  you  knew  long  ago,  and  that  was  your 
cousin,  and  her  name  Judith  Shakespeare.  Come,  sweetheart," 
said  she,  and  she  rose  from  the  stile  and  took  his  hand  in  hers. 


238  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

"Shall  I  draw  thee  home?     But  not  with  sweet  music,  for  I 
have  not  Susan's  voice.     I  would  I  had,  for  thy  sake." 

You  have  the  prettiest  voice  in  the  whole  world,  Cousin 
Judith,"  said  he. 

And  so  they  walked  on  and  into  the  town,  in  silence  mostly. 
The  world  had  grown  more  solemn  now:  here  and  there  in 
the  lilac-gray  deeps  overhead  a  small  silver  point  began  to 
appear.  And  sure  he  was  that  whatever  might  happen  to 
him  in  the  years  to  come,  no  sweetheart  or  any  other  would 
ever  crush  out  from  his  affection  or  from  his  memory  this 
sweet  cousin  of  his;  for  him  she  would  always  be  the  one 
woman,  strange  and  mystical  and  kind;  there  never  would 
be  any  touch  like  the  touch  of  her  hand,  so  gentle  was  it  as  it 
rested  on  his  hair;  and  there  never  would  be  anything  more 
wonderful  and  gracious  to  look  forward  to  than  the  old  and  fa- 
miliar sitting  in  the  church  pew  by  Judith's  side,  with  the 
breathless  fascination  of  knowing  that  she  was  so  near,  and 
the  tlirill  of  hearing  her  join  (rather  timidly,  for  she  was  not 
proud  of  her  voice)  in  the  singing  of  the  choir. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A  DISCOVERY. 

"That  be  so  as  I  tell  ye,  zur,"  said  Matthew  gardener, 
as  he  slowly  sharpened  a  long  knife  on  the  hone  that  he  held 
in  his  hand ;  "  it  all  cometh  of  the  pampering  of  queasy  stom- 
achs nowadays  that  can  not  hold  honest  food.  There  be  no 
such  folk  now  as  there  wur  in  former  days,  when  men  wur ' 
hardy,  and  long-lived,  and  healthy;  and  why,  zur?— why,  but 
that  they  wur  content  wi'  plain  dishes  of  pulse  or  herbs,  and 
for  the  most  worshipful  no  more  than  a  dish  of  broth  and  a 
piece  of  good  wholesome  beef  withal.  But  nowadays.  Lord ! 
Ijord  !— dish  after  dish,  with  each  his  several  sauce ;  and  this 
from  Portugal  and  that  from  France,  so  that  gluttony  shall 
have  its  swing,  and  never  a  penny  be  kept  for  the  poor.  Nay, 
I  tell  ye,  zur,  rich  and  poor  alike  wur  stronger  and  healthier 
when  there  wur  no  such  waste  in  the  land;  when  a  man 
would  wear  his  frieze  coat  and  hosen  of  the  color  of  the  sheep 


A  DISCOVERY.  229 

that  bore  them ;  and  have  his  shirt  of  honest  hemp  or  flax,  and 
could  sleep  well  with  his  head  on  a  block  of  wood  and  a  sheep- 
skin thrown  o'er  it.  But  nowadays  must  he  have  his  shirt  of 
fine  lawn  and  needle-work;  ay,  and  his  soft  pillow  to  lie  on, 
so  that  his  "lily- white  body  shall  come  to  no  scratching;  nor 
will  he  drink  any  longer  small  drink,  no,  nor  water,  but  heavy 
ales  and  rich  wines ;  and  all  goeth  to  the  belly,  and  naught  to 
his  poorer  neighbor.  And  what  cometli  of  this  but  tender  stom- 
achs, and  riot,  and  waste*— and  lucky  if  Bocardo  be  not  at  the 
end  of  it  all." 

As  it  chanced  on  this  fine  morning,  Judith's  father  had 
strolled  along  to  look  at  some  trained  apple-trees  at  the  further 
end  of  the  garden,  and  finding  goodman  Matthew  there,  and 
having  a  mind  for  idleness,  had  sat  down  on  a  bench  to 
hear  what  news  of  the  condition  of  the  land  Matthew  might 
have  to  lay  before  him. 

"Nay,  but,  good  Matthew,"  said  he,  "if  these  luxuries  woi-k 
such  mischief,  'tis  the  better  surely  that  the  poor  have  none  of 
them.  They,  at  least,  can  not  have  their  stomachs  ruined  with 
sauces  and  condiments." 

"Lord  bless  ye,  zur,"  said  the  ancient,  with  a  wise  smile, 
"  'tis  not  in  one  way,  but  in  all  ways,  that  the  mischief  is  done; 
for  the  poorest,  seeing  such  waste  and  gluttony  everywhere 
abroad,  have  no  continence  of  their  means,  but  will  spend 
their  last  penny  on  any  foolishness.  Lord!  Lord!  they  be 
such  poor  simple  creatures!  they  that  have  scarce  a  rag  to 
their  backs  will  crowd  at  the  mops  and  fairs,  and  s]iond  their 
money— on  what?  Why,  you  must  ha'  witnessed  it,  zur — the 
poor  fools ! — emptying  their  pouches  to  see  a  woman  walking 
on  a  rope,  or  a  tumbler  joining  his  hands  to  his  heels,  or  a  hen 
with  two  heads.  The  poor  simple  creatures! — and  yet  I  war- 
rant me  they  be  none  so  poor  but  tliat  the  rascal  doctor  can 
make  his  money  out  o'  them:  'tis  a  foine  way  o'  making  a  foi*- 
tune  that,  going  vagrom  about  the  country  with  his  draughts 
and  pills — not  honest  medicines  that  a  body  might  make  out  o' 
wholesome-herbs,  but  nauseous  stinking  stuff  that  robs  a  man 
of  his  breath  in  the  very  swallowing  of  it.  And  the  almanac- 
makers,  too — marry,  that,  now,  is  another  thriving  trade! — 
the  searching  of  stars,  and  the  prophesying  of  dry  or  wet 
weather !    Weather?  what  know  they  of  the  weather,  the  town- 


830  JUDITH  SHABGESPEAKE. 

bred  rogues,  that  lie  and  cheat  to  get  at  the  poor  country  folks' 
money?  God  'a  mercy,  a  whip  to  their  shoulders  would  teach 
them  more  o'  the  weather  than  ever  they  are  like  to  get  out 
of  the  stars!  And  yet  the  poor  fools  o'  countrymen — that 
scarce  know  a  B  from  a  battledoor — will  sit  o'  nights  puzzling 
their  brains  o'er  the  signs  o'  the  heavens ;  and  no  matter  what 
any  man  with  eyes  can  see  for  himself^ay,  and  fifty  times 
surer,  as  I  take  it — they  will  prophesy  you  a  dry  month  or  a 
wet  month,  because  the  almanac  saitti  so;  and  they  will  swear 
to  you  that  Taurus — that  is  a  lion — and  the  virgin  scales  have 
come  together,  therefore  there  must  be  a  blight  on  the  pear- 
trees!  Heard  you  ever  the  like,  zur? — that  a  man  in  Lunnon, 
knowing  as  much  about  husbandry  and  farm-work  as  a  cat 
knows  about  quoit-throwing,  is  to  tell  me  the  weather  down 
here  in  Warwickshire  ?  God  help  us,  they  be  poor  weak  crea- 
tures that  think  so ;  I'd  liefer  look  at  the  cover  of  a  penny  bal- 
lad, if  I  wanted  to  know  when  there  was  to  be  frost  o'  nights." 

At  this  juncture  the  old  man  grinned,  as  if  some  secret 
joke  were  tickling  his  fancy. 

"Why,  zui',"  said  he,  looking  uj)  from  the  hone,  "would 
you  believe  this,  zur — they  be  such  fools  that  a  rogue  will  sell 
them  a  barren  cow  for  a  milch-cow  if  he  but  put  a  strange 
calf  to  her  ?     'Tis  done,  zur — 'tis  done,  I  assure  ye." 

"In  truth,  a  scurvy  trick!"  Judith's  father  said.  He  was 
idly  di-awing  figures  on  the  ground  with  a  bit  of  stick  he  had 
got  hold  of.  Perhaps  he  was  not  listening  attentively ;  but  at 
all  events  he  encouraged  Matthew  to  talk.  "  But  surely  with 
years  comes  wisdom.  The  most  foolish  are  not  caught  twice 
with  such  a  trick." 

' '  What  of  that,  zur  ?"  answered  Matthew.  ' '  There  be  plenty 
of  other  fools  in  the  land  to  make  the  trade  of  roguery  thrive. 
'Tis  true  that  a  man  may  learn  by  his  own  experience;  but 
what  if  he  hath  a  son  that  be  growing  up  a  bigger  fool  than 
himself?  And  that's  where  'tis  nowadays,  zur;  there  be  no 
waiting  and  prudence;  but  every  saucy  boy  must  match  on  to 
his  maid,  and  marry  her  ere  they  have  a  roof  to  put  over  their 
heads.  'Tis  a  fine  beginning,  surely!  No  waiting,  no  pru- 
dence— as  the  rich  are  wasteful  and  careless,  so  are  the  poor 
heedless  of  the  morrow ;  and  the  boy  and  the  wench  they  must 
have  their  cottage  at  tlie  lane  end,  run  up  of  elder  poles,  and 


A  DISCOVERY.  231 

forthwith  begin  the  begetting  of  beggars  to  swarm  over  the 
land.  A  rare  beginning!  Body  o'  nie,  do  they  think  they 
can  live  on  nettles  and  grass,  like  Nebuchadnezzar  ?" 

And  so  the  old  man  continued  to  rail  and  grumble  and  be- 
moan, sometimes  with  a  saturnine  grin  of  satisfaction  at  his 
own  wit  coming  over  his  face  ;  and  Judith's  father  did  not 
seek  to  controvert ;  he  listened,  and  drew  figures  on  the  ground, 
and  merely  put  in  a  word  now  and  again.  It  was  a  pleasant 
morning — fresh,  and  clear,  and  sunny;  and  this  town  of  Strat- 
ford was  a  quiet  place  at  that  hour,  with  the  children  all  at 
school.  Sometimes  Judith's  father  laughed;  but  he  did  not 
argue;  and  goodman  Matthew,  having  it  all  his  own  way,  was 
more  than  ever  convinced  not  only  that  he  was  the  one  wise 
man  among  a  generation  of  fools,  but  also  that  he  was  the  only 
representative  and  upholder  of  the  Spartan  virtues  that  had 
characterized  his  forefathers.  It  is  true  that  on  more  than  one 
occasion  he  had  been  found  somewhat  overcome  with  ale;  but 
this,  when  he  had  recovered  from  his  tempoi-ary  confusion,  he 
declared  was  entirely  due  to  the  rascal  brewers  of  those  de- 
genei'ate  days — and  especially  of  Warwickshire — who  put  all 
manner  of  abominations  into  their  huff -cap,  so  that  an  honest 
Worcestershire  stomach  might  easily  be  caught  napping,  and 
take  no  shame. 

And  meanwhile  what  had  been  happening  in  another  part  of 
the  garden  ?  As  it  chanced,  Judith  had  been  sent  by  her  mo- 
ther to  carry  to  the  summer-hou.se  a  cup  of  wine  and  some  thin 
Gates;  and  in  doing  so  she  of  course  saw  that  both  her  father 
and  goodman  Matthew  were  at  the  further  end  of  the  garden, 
and  apparently  settled  there  for  the  time  being.  The  oppoi'- 
tunity  was  too  good  to  be  lost.  She  swiftly  went  back  to  the 
house,  secured  the  portion  of  the  play  that  was  secreted  there, 
and  as  quickly  coming  out  again,  exchanged  it  for  an  equal 
number  of  new  sheets.  It  was  all  the  work  of  a  couple  of 
minutes;  and  in  another  second  she  was  in  her  own  room,  ready 
to  put  the  precious  prize  into  her  little  cupboard  of  boxes.  And 
yet  she  could  not  forbear  turning  over  the  sheets,  and  examin- 
ing them  curiously,  and  she  was  saying  to  herself  :  "You  cru- 
el writing,  to  have  such  secrets,  and  refuse  to  give  them  up! 
If  it  were  pictures,  now,  I  could  make  out  something  with  a 
guess;  but  all  these  little  marks,  so  much  alike,  what  can  one 


233  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

make  of  them  ? — all  alike — with  here  and  there  a  curling,  as  if 
my  father  had  been  amusing  himself — and  all  so  j)lain  and 
even,  too,  with  never  a  blot :  marry,  I  marvel  he  should  make 
the  other  copy,  unless  with  intent  to  alter  as  he  writes.  And 
those  words  with  the  big  letters  at  the  beginning — these  be  the 
people's  names — Ferdinand,  and  sweet  Miranda,  and  the  Duke, 
and  the  ill  beast  that  would  harm  them  all.  Why,  in  Heaven's 
mercy,  was  I  so  fractious  ?  I  might  even  now  be  learning  all 
the  story — here  by  myself — the  only  one  in  the  land:  I  might 
all  by  myself  know  the  story  that  will  set  the  London  folk  agog 
in  the  coming  winter.  And  what  a  prize  were  this,  now,  for 
Master  Ben  Jonson !  Could  one  but  go  to  him  and  say,  '  Good 
sir,  here  be  something  better  than  your  masques  and  mum- 
meries, your  Greeks  and  clouds  and  long  speeches :  put  your 
name  to  it,  good  sir — nay,  my  father  hath  abundant  store  of 
such  matter,  and  we  in  Warwickshire  are  no  niggards — put 
your  name  to  it,  good  sir,  and  you  will  get  the  court  ladies  to 
say  you  have  risen  a  step  on  the  ladder,  else  have  they  but  a 
strange  judgment!'  What  would  the  goodman  do  ?  Beshrew 
me.  Prudence  never  told  me  the  name  of  the  play !  But  let 
us  call  it  The  Magic  Island.  The  Magic  Island,  by  Master 
Benjamin  Jonson.     Wiiat  would  the  wits  say  ?" 

But  here  she  heard  some  noise  on  the  stair;  so  she  quickly 
hid  away  the  treasure  in  the  little  drawer,  and  locked  it  up 
safe  there  until  she  should  have  the  chance  of  asking  Prudence 
to  read  it  to  her. 

That  did  not  happen  until  nearly  night-fall;  for  Prudence 
had  been  away  all  day  helping  to  put  the  house  straight  of  a 
poor  woman  that  was  ill  and  in  bed.  Moreovei',  she  had  been 
sewing  a  good  deal  at  the  children's  clothes  and  her  eyes  look- 
ed tired — or  perhaps  it  was  the  wan  light  that  yet  lingered  in 
the  sky  that  gave  her  that  expression,  the  candles  not  yet  being 
lit.  Judith  regarded  her,  and  took  her  hands  tenderly,  and 
made  her  sit  down. 

"  Sweet  mouse,"  said  she,  "  you  are  wearing  yourself  out  in 
the  service  of  others ;  and  if  you  take  such  little  heed  of  your- 
self, you  will  yourself  fall  ill.  And  now  must  I  demand  of 
you  further  labor.  Or  will  it  be  a  i-efreshment  for  you  after 
the  fatigue  of  the  day  ?  See,  I  have  brought  them  all  with  me 
— the  sprite  Ariel,  and  the  sweet  prince,  and  Miranda;  but  in 


v. 

o 


B 
PI 

O 


\SP,  Aii'-'i*^^ 


A  DISCOVERY.  235 

good  sooth  I  will  gladly  wait  for  another  time  if  you  are 
tired—" 

"  Nay,  not  so,  Judith,"  she  answered.  "  Thex'e  is  nothing  I 
could  like  better — but  for  one  thing." 

"What,  then?" 

"Mean  you  to  show  this  also  to  the  young  gentleman  that 
is  at  Bidford  ?" 

"And  wherefore  not,  good  Prue  ?  He  hath  seen  so  much 
of  the  stoiy,  'twere  a  pity  he  should  not  have  the  rest.  And 
what  a  small  kindness — the  loan  but  for  an  hour  or  two ;  and 
I  need  not  even  see  him,  for  I  have  but  to  leave  it  at  my 
grandmother's  cottage.  And  if  you  heard  what  he  says  of  it — 
and  how  grateful  he  is:  marry,  it  all  lies  in  this,  sweet  Prue, 
that  you  have  not  seen  him,  else  would  you  be  willing  enough 
to  do  him  so  small  a  favor." 

By  this  time  Prudence  had  lit  the  candles;  and  presently 
they  made  their  way  upstairs  to  her  o\vn  room. 

"And  surely,"  said  Judith,  as  her  gentle  gossip  was  arran- 
ging the  manuscript,  "the  story  will  end  well,  and  merrily  for 
the  sweet  maiden,  seeing  how  powerful  her  father  is  ?  Will  he 
not  compel  all  things  to  her  happiness — he  that  can  raise 
storms,  and  has  messengei'S  to  fly  round  the  world  for  him  ?" 

"And  yet  he  spoke  but  harshly  to  the  young  man  when  last 
we  saw  them,"  Prudence  said.     "  Why,  what's  this  ?" 

She  had  run  her  eye  down  the  fii-st  page ;  and  now  she  began 
reading : 

Enter  Ferdinand  beanng  a  log. 

Ferdinand.  There  be  some  sports  are  painful,  and  their  labor 
Delight  in  them  sets  off.     This  my  mean  task 
Would  be  as  heavy  to  me  as  odious,  but 
The  mistress  which  I  serve  quickens  what's  dead, 
And  makes  my  labors  pleasures.     Oh,  she  is 
Ten  times  more  gentle  than  her  father's  crabbed; 
And  he's  composed  of  harshness.     I  must  remove 
Some  thousands  of  these  logs  and  pile  them  up, 
Upon  a  sore  injunction.     My  sweet  mistress 
Weeps  when  she  sees  me  work ;  and  says  such  baseness 
Had  never  like  executor. 

Judith's  face  had  gradually  fallen. 

"  Why,  'tis  cruel,"  said  she;  "and  'tis  cruel  of  my  father  to 
put  such  pain  on  the  sweet  prince,  that  is  so  gentle,  and  so  un- 
fortunate withal." 

10 


236  JUDITH   SHAKESPEARE. 

But  Prudence  continued  the  reading : 

Enter  Miranda. 

Miranda.  Alas,  now,  pray  you, 

Work  not  so  hard :  I  would  the  lightning  had 
Burnt  up  those  logs,  that  you  are  enjoined  to  pile! 
Pray,  set  it  down  and  rest  yon :  when  this  burns, 
'Twill  weep  for  having  wearied  you.     My  father 
Is  hard  at  study ;  pray,  now,  rest  yourself ; 
He's  safe  for  these  three  hours. 

Ferdinand.  0  most  dear  mistress, 

The  sun  will  set  before  I  shall  discharge 
What  I  must  strive  to  do. 

Miranda.  If  you'll  sit  down, 

I'll  bear  your  logs  the  while:  pray  give  me  that — 
I'll  carry  it  to  the  pile. 

At  this  point  Judith's  eyes  grew  proud  and  grateful  (as 
though  Miranda  had  done  some  hrave  thing),  but  she  did  not 
speak. 

Ferdinand.  No,  precious  creature; 

I  had  rather  crack  my  sinews,  break  my  back, 
Than  you  should  such  dishonor  undergo, 
While  I  sit  lazy  by. 

Miranda.  You  look  wearily. 

Ferdinand.  No,  noble  mistress ;  'tis  fresh  morning  with  me, 
When  you  are  by  at  night.     I  do  beseech  you 
(Chiefly  that  I  may  set  it  in  my  prayers). 
What  is  your  name? 

Miranda.  Miranda. — 0  my  father, 

I  have  broke  your  hest  to  say  so ! 

Ferdinand.  Admired  Miranda: 

Indeed,  the  top  of  admiration ;  worth 
What's  dearest  to  the  world !     Full  many  a  lady 
I  have  eyed  with  best  regard;  and  many  a  time 
The  harmony  of  their  tongues  hath  into  bondage 
Brought  my  too  diligent  ear :  for  several  virtues 
Have  I  liked  several  women ;  never  any 
With  so  full  soul  but  some  defect  in  her 
Did  quarrel  with  the  noblest  grace  she  owed, 
And  put  it  to  the  foil.     But  you,  0  you. 
So  perfect  and  so  peerless,  are  created 
Of  every  creature's  best! 

Mira7ida.  I  do  not  know 

One  of  my  sex :  no  woman's  face  remember, 
Save,  from  my  glass,  mine  own ;  nor  have  I  seen 
More  that  I  may  calUmen  than  you,  good  friend, 
And  my  dear  father:    how  features  are  abroad, 
I  am  skill-less  of;  but,  by  my  modesty 
(The  jewel  in  my  dower),  I  would  not  wislj 
Any  companion  in  the  world  but  you ; 
Nor  can  imagination  form  a  shape. 
Besides  yourself,  to  like  of:  But  I  prattle 
Something  too  wildly,  and  my  father's  precepts 
I  therein  do  forg«t. 


A  DISCOVERY.  237 

"Nay,  is  she  not  fair  and  modest!"  Judith  exclaimed — but 
apart;  and,  as  the  reading  proceeded,  she  began  to  think  of 
how  Master  Leofric  Hope  would  regard  this  maiden.  Would 
he  not  judge  her  to  be  right  gentle,  and  timid,  and  yet  woman- 
ly withal,  and  frank  in  her  confiding?  And  he — supposing 
that  he  were  the  young  prince — what  would  he  think  of  such 
a  one  ?  Was  it  too  submissive  that  she  should  offer  to  carry 
the  logs  ?  Ought  she  to  so  openly  confess  that  she  would  fain 
have  him  to  be  her  companion  ?  And  then,  as  Judith  was  thus 
considering,  this  was  what   she  heard,  in  Prudence's  gentle 

voice : 

Miranda.  Do  you  love  me? 

Ferdinand.  0  heaven,  0  earth,  bear  witness  to  this  sound, 
And  crown  what  I  profess  with  kind  event, 
If  I  speak  true;  if  hollowly,  invert 
What  best  is  boded  nie,  to  mischief !     I, 
Beyond  all  limit  of  what  else  i'  the  world, 
Do  love,  prize,  honor  you. 

Miranda.  I  am  a  fool 

To  weep  at  what  I  am  glad  of. 

Ferdinand.  Wherefore  weep  you? 

Miranda.  At  mine  unworthiness,  that  dare  not  offer 
What  I  desire  to  give ;  and  much  le.'^s  take 
What  I  shall  die  to  want:  But  this  is  trilling; 
And  all  the  more  it  seeks  to  hide  itself, 
The  bigger  bulk  it  shows.     Hence,  bashful  cunning ! 
And  prompt  me,  plain  and  holy  innocence ! 
I  am  your  wife,  if  you  will  marry  me; 
If  not,  I'll  die  your  maid ;  to  be  your  fellow 
You  may  deny  me ;   but  I'll  be  your  servant, 
Whether  you  will  .or  no. 

Ferdinand.  My  mistress,  dearest; 

And  I  thus  humble  ever. 

Miranda.  My  husband,  then? 

Ferdinand.  Ay,  with  a  heart  as  willing 
As  bondage  e'er  of  freedom :  here's  my  hand. 

Miranda.  And  mine,  with  my  heart  in't ;  and  now  farewell, 
Till  half  an  hour  hence. 

Ferdinand.  A  thousand  thousand  ! 

She  clapped  her  hands  and  laughed,  in  delight  and  triumph. 

"  Why,  sure  her  father  will  relent,"  she  cried. 

"But,  Judith,  Judith,  stay,"  Prudence  said,  quickly,  and 
with  scarce  less  gladness.  "  'Tis  so  set  down ;  for  this  is  what 
her  father  says : 

'So  glad  of  this  as  they  I  can  not  be, 
Who  are  surprised  wiihal;  but  my  rejoicing 
At  nothing  can  be  more.' 


238  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE, 

Nay,  I  take  it  he  will  soon  explain  to  us  why  he  was  so  harsh 
with  the  young  pi'ince — perchance  to  try  his  constancy  ?" 

Well,  after  that  the  reading  went  on  as  far  as  the  sheets  that 
Judith  had  brought ;  but  ever  her  mind  was  returning  to  the 
scene  between  the  two  lovers,  and  speculating  as  to  how  Leo- 
fric  Hope  would  look  upon  it.  She  had  no  resentment  against 
Ben  Jonson  now ;  her  heart  was  full  of  assurance  and  triumph, 
and  was  therefore  generous.  Her  only  vexation  was  that  the 
night  must  intervene  before  there  could  be  a  chance  of  the 
young  London  gentleman  calling  at  the  cottage ;  and  she  look- 
ed forward  to  the  possibility  of  seeing  him  some  time  or  other 
with  the  determination  to  be  more  demure  than  ever.  She 
would  not  expect  him  to  praise  this  play.  Perchance  'twas 
good  enough  for  simple  Warwickshire  folk;  but  the  London 
wits  might  consider  it  of  the  vulgar  kind.  And  she  laughed 
to  herself  at  thinking  how  awkward  his  protests  would  be  if 
she  ventured  to  hint  anything  in  that  direction. 

Prudence  put  the  sheets  carefully  together  again. 

"Judith,  Judith,"  she  said,  with  a  quiet  smile,  "you  lead  rne 

^far  astray.     I  ought  to  find  such  things  wicked  and  horrible  to 

the  ear;  but  pei-chance  'tis  because  I  know  your  father,  and  see 

him  from  day  to  day,  that  I  find  them  innocent  enough.     They 

seem  to  rest  the  mind  when  one  is  sorrowful." 

"Beware  of  them,  good  Prue;  they  are  the  devil  himself 
come  in  the  guise  of  an  angel  to  snatch  thee  away.  Nay,  but, 
sweetheart,  why  should  you  be  sorrowful  ?" 

"There  is  Martlia  Hodgson,"  said  she,  simply,  "and  her 
children,  nigh  to  starving ;  and  I  can  not  ask  Julius  for  more — " 

Judith's  purse  was  out  in  an  instant. 

"Why,"  said  she,  "my  father  did  not  use  half  of  what  I 
gave  him  for  the  knife  he  bought  at  Warwick — maiTy,  I  guess 
he  paid  for  it  mostly  himself;  but  what  there  is  here  you  shall 
have." 

And  she  emptied  the  contents  on  to  the  table,  and  pushed 
them  over  to  her  friend. 

"You  do  i?ot  grudge  it,  Judith?"  said  Prudence.  "Nay, 
I  will  not  ask  thee  that.  Nor  can  I  refuse  it  either,  for  the 
children  are  in  sore  want.  But  why  should  you  not  give  it 
to  them  yourself,  Judith  ?" 

"Why  ?"  said  Judith,  regarding  the  gentle  face  with  kindlv 


A  DISCbVERY.  239 

eyes.  "Shall  I  tell  thee  why,  sweetheart  ?  'Tis  but  this :  that 
if  I  were  in  need,  and  help  to  be  given  me,  I  would  value  it 
thrice  as  much  if  it  came  from  your  hand.  There  is  a  way  of 
doing  such  things,  and  you  have  it:  that  is  all." 

"I  hear  Julius  is  come  in,"  Prudence  said,  as  she  took  up 
the  two  candles.     "Will  you  go  in  and  speak  with  him  ?" 

There  was  some  strange  hesitation  in  her  manner,  and  she 
did  not  go  to  the  door.  She  glanced  at  Judith  somewhat  tim- 
idly.    Then  she  set  the  candles  down  again. 

"Judith,"  said  she,  "your  pity  is  quick,  and  you  are  gener- 
ous and  kind ;  I  would  you  could  find  it  in  your  heart  to  ex- 
tend your  kindness." 

"How  now,  good  cousin?"  Judith  said,  in  amazement. 
"  Whafs  this  ?" 

Prudence  glanced  at  her  again,  somewhat  uneasily,  and  ob- 
viously in  great  embarrassment. 

"You  will  not  take  it  ill,  dear  Judith  ?" 

"By  my  life,  I  will  not !  Not  from  you,  dear  heart,  whatever 
it  be.     But  what  is  the  dreadful  secret  ?" 

"Tom  Quiney  has  spoken  to  me," she  said,  diffidently. 

Judith  eagerly  caught  both  her  hands. 

"And  you!  What  said  you?  'Tis  all  settled,  then!"  she 
exclaimed,  almost  breatlilessly. 

"It  is  as  I  imagined,  Judith,"  said  Prudence,  calmly — and 
she  withdrew  her  hands,  with  a  touch  of  maidenly  pride,  per- 
haps, from  wliat  she  could  not  but  imagine  to  be  a  kind  of  fe- 
licitation. "  He  hath  no  fault  to  find  with  the  country.  If  he 
goes  away  to  those  lands  beyond  seas,  'tis  merely  because  you 
will  say  no  word  to  liold  him  back." 

"I!"  said  Judith,  impatiently;  and  then  she  checked  herself. 
"But  you,  sweetheart,  what  said  he  to  you  ?" 

Prudence's  cheeks  flushed  red. 

"He  would  have  me  intercede  for  him,"  she  said,  timidly. 

"Intercede?  with  whom  ?" 

' '  Why,  you  know,  Judith ;  with  whom  but  yourself  ?  Nay, 
but  be  patient — have  some  kindness.  The  young  man  opened 
his  heart  to  me ;  and  I  know  he  is  in  trouble.  'Twas  last  night 
as  we  were  coming  home  from  the  lecture;  and  he  would  have 
me  wait  till  he  left  a  message  at  his  door,  so  that  thus  we  fell 
behind;  and  then  he  told  me  why  it  was  that  Stratford  had 


240  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE, 

grown  distasteful  to  him,  and  not  to  be  borne,  and  why  he 
was  going  away.  How  could  I  help  saying  that  that  would 
grieve  you  ? — sure  I  am  you  can  not  but  be  sorry  to  think  of  the 
young  man  banishing  himself  from  his  own  i^eople.  And  he 
said  that  I  was  your  nearest  friend ;  and  would  I  speak  for  him  ? 
And  I  answered  that  I  was  all  unused  to  sucli  matters,  but 
that  if  any  pleading  of  mine  would  influence  you  I  would  right 
gladly  do  him  that  service;  and  so  I  would,  dear  Judith;  for 
how  can  you  bear  to  think  of  the  youth  going  away  with  these 
godless  men,  and  perchance  never  to  return  to  his  own  land, 
when  a  word  from  you  would  restrain  him  ?" 

Judith  took  both  her  hands  again,  and  looked  with  a  kindly 
smile  into  the  timid,  pleading  eyes. 

"And  'tis  you,  sweet  mouse,  that  come  to  me  with  such  a 
prayer  ?  Was  there  ever  so  kind  a  heart  ?  But  that  is  you  ever 
and  always — never  a  thought  for  yourself,  everything  for  oth- 
ers. And  so  he  had  the  cruelty  to  ask  you — you — to  bring 
this  message  ?" 

"Judith,"  said  the  other,  with  the  color  coming  into  her  face 
again,  ' '  you  force  me  to  speak  against  my  will.  Nay,  how  can 
I  hide  from  myself,  dear  friend,  that  you  have  plans  and  wish- 
es— perchance  suspicions — with  regard  to  me  ?  And  if  what 
I  guess  be  true — if  that  is  your  meaning — indeed  'tis  all  built 
on  a  wrong  foundation :  believe  me,  Judith,  it  is  so.  I  would 
have  you  assured  of  it,  sweetheart.  You  know  that  I  like  not 
speaking  of  such  matters ;  'tis  not  seemly  and  becoming  to  a 
maiden ;  and  fain  would  I  have  my  mind  occupied  with  far 
other  things;  but,  Judith,  this  time  I  must  speak  plain;  and 
I  would  have  you  put  away  from  you  all  such  intentions  and 
surmises — dear  heart,  you  do  me  wrong !" 

"In  good  sooth,  am  I  all  mistaken?"  Judith  said,  glancing 
keenly  at  her. 

"Do  you  doubt  my  word,  Judith  ?"  said  she. 

"And  yet,"  her  friend  said,  as  if  to  herself,  and  musingly, 
"there  were  several  occasions:  there  was  the  fortune-teller  at 
Hampton  Lucy  that  coupled  you,  and  Quiney  seemed  right 
merry  withal ;  and  then  again  Avhen  he  would  have  us  play 
kiss-in-the-ring  on  the  evening  after  Mary  Sadler's  marriage, 
and  I  forbade  it  chiefly  for  your  sake,  sweet  mouse,  then  me- 
thought  you  seemed  none  overpleased  with  my  interference — " 


A  DISCOVERT.  241 

But  here  she  happened  to  look  at  Prudence,  and  she  could 
not  fail  to  see  that  the  whole  subject  was  infinitely  distress- 
ing to  her.  There  was  a  proud,  hurt  expression  on  the  gentle 
face,  and  a  i*ed  spot  burning  in  each  cheek.  So  Judith  took 
hold  of  her  and  kissed  her. 

"Once  and  forever,  dearest  heart,"  said  she,  "I  banish  all 
such  thoughts.  And  I  will  make  no  more  plans  for  thee,  nor 
suspect  thee,  but  let  thee  go  in  thine  own  way,  in  the  paths  of 
charity  and  goodness.  But  I  mean  not  to  give  up  thy  friend- 
ship, sweet  Prue;  if  I  can  not  walk  in  the  same  path,  at  least  I 
may  stretch  a  hand  over  to  thee ;  and  if  I  but  keep  so  near  so 
true  a  saint,  marry,  I  shall  not  go  so  far  wrong." 

She  took  up  one  of  the  candles. 

"Shall  we  go  down  and  see  Julius ?"  said  she. 

"But  Tom  Quiney,  Judith — what  shall  I  say?"  Prudence 
asked,  anxiously. 

"Why,  say  nothing,  sweetheai't, "  was  the  immediate  answer. 
"'Twas  a  shame  to  burden  you  with  such  a  task.  When  he 
chooses  he  can  at  any  moment  have  speech  of  me,  if  his  wor- 
ship be  not  too  proud  or  too  suspicious.  In  Stratford  we  can 
all  of  us  speak  the  English  tongue,  I  hope." 

"But,  Judith,"  said  the  other,  slowly  and  wistfully,  "twen- 
ty years  is  a  long  space  for  one  to  be  away  from  his  native  ' 
land." 

"  Marry  is  it,  sweet  mouse,"  Judith  answered,  as  she  opened 
the  door  and  proceeded  to  go  down  the  narrow  wooden  steps. 
"'Tis  a  long  space  indeed,  and  at  the  end  of  it  many  a  thing 
that  seemeth  of  great  import  and  consequence  now  will  be  no 
better  than  an  old  tale,  idle  and  half  forgotten." 


242  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

PORTENTS. 

It  was  somewhat  hard  on  little  Bess  Hall  that  her  aunt  Ju- 
dith was  determined  she  should  grow  up  as  fearless  as  she  her- 
self was,  and  had,  indeed,  charged  herself  with  this  branch  of 
her  niece's  education.  The  child,  it  is  true,  was  not  more  tim- 
id than  others  of  her  age,  and  could  face  with  fair  equanimity 
beggars,  school-boys,  cows,  geese,  and  other  dangerous  crea- 
tures; while  as  for  ghosts,  goblins,  and  similar  nocturnal  ter- 
rors, Judith  had  settled  all  that  side  of  the  question  by  inform- 
ing the  maids  of  both  families,  in  the  plainest  language,  that 
any  one  of  them  found  even  mentioning  such  things  to  this 
niece  of  hers  would  be  instantaneously  and  without  ceremony 
shot  forth  from  the  house.  But  beyond  and  above  all  this 
Judith  expected  too  much,  and  would  flout  and  scold  when  Bess 
Hall  declined  to  perform  the  impossible,  and  would  threaten  to 
go  away  and  get  a  small  boy  out  of  the  school  to  become  her 
playmate  in  future.  At  this  moment,  for  example,  she  was 
standing  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase  in  Dr.  Hall's  house.  She 
had  come  round  to  carry  off  her  niece  for  the  day,  and  she  had 
dressed  her  up  like  a  small  queen,  and  now  she  would  have  her 
descend  the  wide  and  handsome  staircase  in  noble  state  and  un- 
aided. Bess  Hall,  who  had  no  ambition'  to  play  the  i)art  of  a 
queen,  but  had,  on  the  other  hand,  a  wholesome  and  instinctive 
fear  of  breaking  her  neck,  now  stood  on  the  landing,  helpless 
amid  all  her  finery,  and  looking  down  at  her  aunt  in  a  beseech- 
ing sort  of  way. 

"  I  shall  tumble  down,  Aunt  Judith;  I  know  I  shall,"  said 
she,  and  budge  she  would  not. 

' '  Tumble  down,  little  stupid !  Why,  what  should  make  you 
tumble  down  ?  Are  you  going  forever  to  be  a  baby  ?  Any 
baby  can  ci'awl  down-stairs  by  holding  on  to  the  balusters." 

"I  know  I  shall  tumble  down,  Aunt  Judith — and  then  I 
shall  cry." 

But  even  this  threat  was  of  no  avail. 


PORTENTS.  243 

"Come  along,  little  goose;  'tis  easy  enough  when  you  try 
it.  Do  you  think  I  have  di'essed  you  up  as  a  grown  woman 
to  see  you  crawl  like  a  baby  ?  A  fine  woman — you !  Come 
along,  I  say !" 

But  this  lesson,  happily  for  the  half-frightened  pupil,  was 
abruptly  brought  to  an  end.  Judith  was  standing  with  her 
face  to  the  staircase,  and  her  back  to  the  central  hall  and  the 
outer  door,  so  that  she  could  not  see  any  one  entering,  and 
indeed  the  first  intimation  she  had  of  the  approach  of  a  stranger 
was  a  voice  behind  her : 

"Be  gentle  with  the  child,  Judith." 

And  then  she  knew  that  she  was  caught.  For  some  little 
time  back  she  had  very  cleverly  managed  to  evade  the  good 
parson,  or  at  least  to  secure  the  safety  of  company  when  she  saw 
him  approach.  But  this  time  she  was  as  helpless  as  little  Bess 
herself.  Dr.  Hall  was  away  from  home;  Judith's  sister  was 
ill  of  a  cold,  and  in  bed ;  there  was  no  one  in  the  house,  besides 
the  servants,  but  herself.  The  only  thing  she  could  do  was  to 
go  up  to  the  landing,  swing  her  niece  on  to  her  shoulder,  and 
say  to  Master  Walter  that  they  were  going  round  to  New 
Place,  for  that  Susan  was  ill  in  bed,  and  unable  to  look  after 
the  child. 

"  I  will  walk  with  you  as  far,"  said  he,  calmly,  and,  indeed, 
as  if  it  were  rather  an  act  of  condescension  on  his  part. 

She  set  out  with  no  good-will.  Slie  expected  that  he  would 
argue,  and  she  had  an  uncomfortable  suspicion  that  he  would 
get  the  best  of  it.  And  if  she  had  once  or  twice  rather  wildly 
thought  that  in  order  to  get  rid  of  all  perplexities,  and  in  order 
to  please  all  the  people  around  her,  she  would  in  the  end  allow 
Master  Walter  Blaise  to  win  her  over  into  becoming  his  wife, 
still  she  felt  that  the  time  was  not  yet.  She  would  have  the 
choosing  of  it  for  herself.  And  why  should  she  be  driven  into 
a  corner  prematurely  ?  Why  be  made  to  confess  that  her  brain 
could  not  save  her?  She  wanted  peace.  She  wanted  to  phiy 
with  Bess  Hall,  or  to  walk  through  the  meadows  with  Willie 
Hart,  teaching  him  what  to  think  of  England.  She  did  not 
want  to  be  confronted  with  clear,  cold  eyes,  and  arguments 
like  steel,  and  the  awful  prospect  of  having  to  labor  in  the 
vineyard  through  the  long,  long,  gray,  and  distant  years.  She 
grew  to  think  it  was  scarcely  fair  of  her  father  to  hand  her 

10* 


244  JUDITH   SHAKESPEARE. 

over.  He  at  least  might  have  been  on  her  side.  But  he  seem- 
ed as  willing  as  any  that  she  should  go  away  among  the 
saints,  and  forsake  forever  (as  it  seemed  to  her)  the  beautiful, 
free,  and  clear-colored  life  that  she  had  been  well  content  to 
live. 

And  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  it  flashed  upon  her  mind  that  she 
was  a  player's  daughter,  and  a  kind  of  flame  went  to  her  face. 

"I  pray  you,  good  Master  Blaise,"  said  she,  with  a  lofty  and 
gracious  courtesy,  "bethink  you,  ere  you  give  us  your  com- 
pany thi-ough  the  town." 

"What  mean  you,  Judith  ?"  said  he,  in  some  amazement. 

' '  Do  you  forget,  then,  that  I  am  the  daughter  of  a  player  ? — 
and  this  his  granddaughter  ?"  said  she. 

"In  truth,  I  know  not  what  you  mean,  Judith,"  he  ex- 
claimed. 

"Why,"  said  she,  "may  not  the  good  people  who  are  the 
saints  of  the  earth  wonder  to  see  you  consort  with  such  as 
we  ? — or,  rather,  with  one  such  as  I,  who  am  impenitent,  and 
take  no  shame  that  my  father  is  a  player — nay,  God's  my 
witness,  I  am  wicked  enough  to  be  proud  of  it,  and  I  care  not 
who  knows  it,  and  they  that  hope  to  have  me  change  my 
thoughts  on  that  matter  will  have  no  lack  of  waiting." 

Well,  it  was  a  fair  challenge ;  and  he  answered  it  frankly, 
and  with  such  a  reasonableness  and  charity  of  speech  that,  de- 
spite herself,  she  could  not  but  admit  that  she  was  pleased,  and 
also,  perhaps,  just  a  little  bit  grateful.  He  would  not  set  up 
to  be  any  man's  judge,  he  said ;  nor  was  he  a  Pharisee ;  the  Mas- 
ter that  he  served  was  no  respecter  of  pei'sons — He  had  wel- 
comed all  when  He  was  upon  the  earth — and  it  behooved  His 
followers  to  beware  of  pride  and  the  setting  up  of  distinctions ; 
if  there  was  any  house  in  the  town  that  earned  the  respect  of 
all,  it  was  New  Place ;  he  could  only  speak  of  her  father  as 
he  found  him,  here,  in  his  own  family,  among  his  own  friends 
— and  what  that  was  all  men  knew;  and  so  forth.  He  spoke 
well,  and  modestly;  and  Judith  was  so  pleased  to  hear  what  he 
said  of  her  father  that  she  forgot  to  ask  whether  all  this  was 
quite  consistent  with  his  usual  denunciations  of  plays  and 
players,  his  dire  prophecy  as  to  the  fate  of  those  who  were 
not  of  the  saints,  and  his  sharp  dividing  and  shutting  off  of 
these.     He  did  not  persecute  her  at  all.     There  was  no  argu- 


PORTENTS.  245 

ment.       What  he  was  mostly  anxious  about  was   that  she 
should  not  tire  hez'self  with  carrying  Bess  Hall  on  her  shoulder. 

"Nay,  good  sir,"  said  she,  quite  pleasantly,  "  'tis  a  trick  my 
father  taught  me;  and  the  child  is  but  a  feather-weight." 

He  looked  at  her — so  handsome  and  buxom,  and  full  of  life 
and  courage ;  her  eyes  lustrous,  the  rose-leaf  tint  of  health  in 
her  cheeks ;  and  always  at  the  corner  of  her  mouth  what  could 
only  be  called  a  disposition  to  smile,  as  if  the  world  suited  her 
fairly  well,  and  that  she  was  I'eady  at  any  moment  to  laugh  her 
thanks. 

"There  be  many,  Judith," said  he,  "who  might  envy  you 
your  health  and  good  spirits." 

"When  I  lose  them,  'twill  be  time  enough  to  lament  them," 
said  she,  complacently. 

"The  hour  that  is  passing  seems  all  in  all  to  you;  and  who 
can  wonder  at  it?"  he  continued.  "Pray  Heaven  your  care- 
lessness of  the  morrow  have  reason  in  it!  But  all  ai'e  not  so 
minded.      There  be  stx-ange  tidings  in  the  land." 

"  Indeed,  sir;  and  to  what  end  ?"  said  she. 

"I  know  not  whether  these  rumors  have  reached  your 
house,"  he  said,  "but  never  at  any  time  I  have  read  of  have 
men's  minds  been  so  disturbed — with  a  restlessness  and  appre- 
hension of  something  being  about  to  liax^pen.  And  what 
marvel !  The  strange  things  that  have  been  seen  and  heard  of 
throughout  the  woi'ld  of  late — meteors,  and  earthquakes,  and 
visions  of  armies  fighting  in  the  heavens.  Even  so  was  Arma- 
geddon to  be  foreshadowed.  Nay,  I  will  be  honest  with  you, 
Judith,  and  say  that  it  is  not  clear  to  my  own  mind  that  the 
great  day  of  the  Lord  is  at  hand ;  but  many  think  so ;  and 
one  man's  I'eading  of  the  Book  of  Revelation  is  but  a  small 
matter  to  set  against  so  wide  a  belief.  Heai'd  you  not  of  the 
vision  that  came  to  the  young  girl  at  Chipping  Camden  last 
Monday  ?" 

"  Indeed,  no,  good  sir." 

"  I  marvel  that  Prudence  has  not  heard  of  it,  for  all  men  are 
speaking  of  it.  'Twas  in  this  way,  as  I  hear.  The  maiden  is 
one  of  rare  piety  and  grace,  given  to  fasting,  and  nightly  vi- 
gils, and  searcliing  of  thr^  lieart.  'Twas  on  the  night  of  Sunday 
last — or  perchance  toward  Monday  morning — that  she  was 
awakened  out  of  her  sleep  by  finding  her  room  full  of  light; 


246  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

and  looking  out  of  the  window  she  beheld  in  the  darkness  a 
figure  of  resplendent  radiance — shining  like  the  sun,  as  she  said, 
only  clear  white,  and  shedding  rays  around ;  and  the  figure  ap- 
proached the  window,  and  regarded  her;  and  she  drojiped  on 
her  knees  in  wonder  and  fear,  and  bowed  her  head  and  wor- 
shipped. And  as  she  did  so,  she  heard  a  voice  say  to  her: 
'Watch  and  pray:  Behold,  I  come  quickly.'  And  she  durst 
not  raise  her  head,  as  she  says,  being  overcome  with  fear  and 
joy.  But  the  light  slowly  faded  from  the  room ;  and  when  at 
last  she  rose  she  saw  something  afar  off  in  the  sky,  that  was 
now  grown  dark  again.  And  ever  since  she  has  been  trem- 
bling with  the  excitement  of  it,  and  will  take  no  food;  but 
from  time  to  time  she  cries  in  a  loud  voice,  '  Lord  Jesus,  come 
quickly !  Lord  Jesus,  come  quickly  I'  Many  have  gone  to  see 
her,  as  I  hear,  and  from  all  pai'ts  of  the  country;  but  she 
heeds  them  not ;  she  is  intent  with  her  prayers ;  and  her  eyes, 
the  people  say,  look  as  if  they  had  beeii  dazzled  with  a  great 
light,  and  are  dazed  and  strange.  Nay,  'tis  but  one  of  many 
things  that  are  murmured  abroad  at  present;  for  there  have 
been  signs  in  the  heavens  seen  in  sundry  places,  and  visions, 
and  men's  minds  grow  anxious." 

"And  what  think  you  yourself,  good  sir?  You  are  one 
that  should  know." 

"I?"  said  he.  "Nay,  I  am  far  too  humble  a  worker  to 
take  upon  myself  the  saying  ay  or  no  at  such  a  time ;  I  can 
but  watch  and  pray  and  wait.  But  is  it  not  strange  to  think 
that  we  here  at  this  moment,  walking  along  this  street  in  Strat- 
ford, might  within  some  measurable  space — say,  a  year,  or  half 
a  dozen  years  or  so — that  we  might  be  walking  by  the  pure 
river  of  water  that  John  saw  flowing  from  the  throne  of  God 
and  of  the  Lamb  ?  Do  you  not  remember  how  the  early  Chris- 
tians, with  such  a  possibility  before  their  eyes,  drew  nearer  to 
each  other,  as  it  were,  and  rejoiced  together,  parting  with  all 
their  possessions,  and  living  in  common,  so  that  the  poorest 
were  even  as  the  rich  ?  'Twas  no  terror  that  overtook  them, 
but  a  happiness;  and  they  drew  themselves  apart  from  the 
world,  and  lived  in  their  own  community,  praying  with  each 
other,  and  aiding  each  other.  'All  that  believed,'  the  Bible 
tells  us,  '  were  in  one  place,  and  had  all  things  common.  And 
they  sold  their  possessions  and  goods,  and  parted  them  to  all 


'  PORTENTS.  247 

men,  as  every  one  had  need.  And  they  continued  daily  in  the 
Temple,  and,  breaking  bread  at  home,  did  eat  their  meat  togeth- 
er with  gladness  and  singleness  of  heart,  praising  God,  and  had 
favor  with  all  the  people;  and  the  Lord  added  to  the  Church 
from  day  to  day  such  as  should  be  saved.'  Such  a  state  of 
spiritual  bi'otherhood  and  exaltation  may  come  among  us  once 
more ;  methinks  I  see  the  symptoms  of  its  approach  even  now. 
Blessed  are  they  who  will  be  in  that  communion  with  a  pure 
soul  and  a  humble  mind,  for  the  Lord  will  be  with  them  as 
their  guide,  though  the  waters  should  arise  and  overflow,  or 
lire  consume  the  earth." 

"Yes,  but,  good  sir,"  said  she,  "  when  the  early  Christians 
you  speak  of  thought  the  world  was  near  to  an  end  they  Avere 
mistaken.     And  these,  now,  of  our  day — " 

"Whatever  is  prophesied  must  come  to  pass,"  said  he,  "or 
soon  or  late,  though  it  is  possible  for  our  poor  human  judg- 
ment to  err  as  to  the  time.  But  surely  we  ought  to  be  pre- 
pared; and  what  preparation,  think  you,  is  sufficient  for  so 
great  and  awful  a  change  ?  Joy  there  may  be  in  the  trivial 
tljiiigs  of  this  world — in  the  vanities  of  the  hour,  that  pass 
away  and  are  forgotten;  but  what  are  these  things  to  those 
wliose  heart  is  set  on  the  New  Jerusalem — the  shining  city  ? 
The  voice  that  John  heard  proclaimed  no  lie:  'twas  the  voice 
of  the  Lord  of  heav'en  and  eax'th — a  promise  to  them  that  wait 
and  watch  for  his  coming.  '  And  God  shall  wipe  away  all 
tears  from  their  eyes;  and  there  shall  be  no  more  death,  neither 
sorrow,  neither  crying,  neither  shall  there  be  any  more  pain, 

for  the  first  things  are  passed And  there  shall  be  no  more 

curse;  but  the  throne  of  God  and  of  the  Lamb  shall  be  in  it, 
and  His  servants  shall  serve  Him.  And  they  shall  see  His 
face,  and  His  name  shall  be  in  their  foreheads.  And  there  shall 
be  no  night  there ;  and  they  need  no  candle,  neither  light  of 
the  sun,  for  the  Lord  God  giveth  them  light,  and  they  shall 
reign  for  evermore.' " 

She  sighed. 

"  'Tis  too  wonderful  a  thing  for  poor  sinful  creatures  to  ex- 
pect," she  said. 

But  by  this,time  they  were  at  the  house,  and  he  could  not  say 
anything  fux'ther  to  her;  indeed,  when  he  proposed  that  she 
should  come  into  the  sitting-room,  and  that  he  would  read  to 


248  JUDITH   SHAKESPEARE. 

her  a  description  of  the  glories  of  the  New  Jerusalem,  out  of 
the  Book  of  Revelation,  she  excused  herself  by  saying  that  she 
must  carry  Bess  Hall  to  see  her  father.  So  he  went  in  and  sat 
down,  waiting  for  Judith's  mother  to  be  sent  for;  while  aunt 
and  niece  went  out  and  through  the  back  yard  to  the  garden. 

"Bess,"  said  Judith,  on  the  way,  "heardst  thou  aught  of  a 
white  figure  ?'' 

"No,  Judith,"  said  the  child,  who  had  been  engaged  all  the 
way  in  examining  the  prettinesses  of  her  aunt's  velvet  cap, 
and  ruff,  and  what  not. 

"That  is  well,"  said  she. 

When  she  got  into  the  garden,  she  could  see  that  goodman 
Matthew  eyed  their  approach  with  little  favor — for  Bess  Hall, 
when  her  grandfather  had  charge  of  her,  was  allowed  to  tear 
flowers,  and  walk  over  beds,  or  do  anything  she  choose ;  but  Ju- 
dith did  not  mind  that  much.  On  the  other  hand,  she  would 
not  go  deliberately  and  disturb  her  father.  She  would  give 
him  his  choice — to  come  forth  or  not  as  he  pleased.  And  so, 
quite  noiselessly,  and  at  a  little  distance  off,  she  passed  the 
summei'-house.  There  was  no  sign.  Accordingly,  she  went 
on  idly  to  the  further  end  of  the  garden,  and  would  doubtless 
have  remained  there  (rather  than  return  within-doors)  amus- 
ing the  child  somehow,  but  that  the  next  minute  her  father  ap- 
peared. 

"  Come  hither,  Bess!     Come  hither,  wench  !"  he  called. 

Nay,  he  came  to  meet  them;  and  as  he  lifted  the  child  down 
from  Judith's  shoulder,  something — perhaps  it  was  the  touch 
of  the  sunlight  on  the  soft  brown  of  her  short  curls — seemed 
to  attract  his  notice. 

"Why,  wench,"  said  he  to  Judith,  "methinks  your  hair 
grows  i^rettier  every  day.  And  yet  you  keep  it  overshort — yes, 
'tis  overshoi't — would  you  have  them  think  you  a  boy  ?" 

"I  would  I  were  a  man,"  said  she,  glancing  at  him  rather 
timidly. 

"How,  then  ?     What,  now  ?" 

"For  then,"  said  she,  "might  I  help  you  in  your  work,  so 
please  you,  sir." 

He  laughed,  and  said : 

"My  work ?     What  know  you  of  that,  wench  ?" 

The  blood  rushed  to  her  face. 


PORTENTS.  249 

' '  Nay,  sir,  I  but  meant  the  work  of  the  fields — in  going' 
about  with  the  bailiff  and  the  like.  The  maids  say  you  were 
abroad  at  five  this  morning." 

"Well,  is't  not  the  pleasantest  time  of  the  day  in  this  hot 
weather  ?"  he  said — and  he  seemed  amused  by  her  interference. 

"  But  why  should  you  give  yourself  so  many  cares,  good  fa- 
ther ?"  she  made  bold  to  say  (for  she  had  been  meditating  the 
saying  of  it  for  many  a  day  back) .  ' '  You  that  have  great  fame, 
and  land,  and  wealth.  We  would  fain  see  you  rest  a  little 
more,  father ;  and  'tis  all  the  harder  to  us  that  we  can  give  you 
no  help,  being  but  women-folk." 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  of  her  voice — or  perhaps  in 
her  eyes — that  conveyed  more  than  her  words.  He  put  his 
hand  on  her  head. 

"You  are  a  good  lass,"  said  he.  "And  listen.  You  can  do 
something  for  me  that  is  of  far  more  value  to  me  than  any 
help  in  any  kind  of  work:  nay,  I  tell  thee  'tis  of  greater  value 
to  me  than  all  of  my  work ;  and  'tis  this :  keep  you  a  merry 
heart,  wench — let  me  see  your  face  right  merry  and  cheerful 
as  you  go  about — that  is  what  you  can  do  for  me;  I  would 
have  you  ever  as  you  are  now,  as  bright  and  glad  as  a  sum- 
mer day." 

"'Tis  an  easy  task,  sir,  so  long  as  you  are  content  to  be 
pleased  with  me,"  she  managed  to  answer;  and  then  little  Bess 
Hall — who  could  not  understand  why  she  should  have  been  so 
long  left  unnoticed — began  to  scramble  up  his  knees,  and  was 
at  last  transferred  to  his  arms. 

Judith's  heart  was  beating  somewhat  quickly — with  a  kind 
of  pride  and  gladness  that  was  very  near  bringing  tears  to  her 
eyes;  but,  of  course,  that  was  out  of  the  question,  seeing  that 
he  had  enjoined  her  to  be  cheerful.  And  so  she  forced  hei'self 
to  say,  with  an  odd  kind  of  smile, 

"I  pray  you,  sir,  may  I  remain  with  you  for  a  space — if 
Bess  and  I  trouble  you  not  ?" 

"Surely," said  he,  regarding  her;  "  but  what  is  it,  then  ?" 

"Why,"  said  she,  pulling  hei'self  together,  "good  Master 
Blaise  is  within-doors,  and  his  last  belief  is  enough  to  frighten 
a  poor  maiden — let  alone  this  small  child.  He  says  the  world 
is  nigh  unto  its  end." 

"Nay,  I  have  heard  of  some  such  talk  being  abroad,"  said  he, 


250  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

"  among  tlie  countiy  folk.  But  why  should  that  frighten  thee  ? 
Even  were  it  true,  we  can  make  it  nor  better  nor  worse." 

"Only  this,  father,"  said  she,  and  she  looked  at  him  with 
the  large,  clear-shining  gray  eyes  no  longer  near  to  tears,  but 
rather  suggesting  some  dark  mystery  of  humor,  "that  if  the 
end  of  the  world  be  so  nigh  at  hand,  'twould  be  an  idle  thing 
for  the  good  parson  to  think  of  taking  him  a  wife." 

"I .ask  for  no  secrets,  wench, "her  father  said,  as  he  sat  lit- 
tle Bess  Hall  on  the  branch  of  an  apple-tree. 

"Nay,  sir,  he  but  said  that  as  many  were  of  opinion  that 
something  dreadful  was  about  to  happen,  we  should  all  of  us 
draw  nearer  together.  That  is  well,  and  to  be  understanded ; 
but  if  the  world  be  about  to  end  for  all  of  us,  surely  'twere  a 
strange  thing  that  any  of  us  should  think  of  taking  husband 

or  wife." 

"I'll  meddle  not,  "her  father  said.  "  Go  thine  own  ways.  I 
have  heard  thou  hast  led  more  than  one  honest  lad  in  Stratford 
a  madcap  dance.  Take  heed ;  take  heed— as  thy  grandmother 
saith — lest  thou  outwear  their  patience." 

And  then  something — she  could  scarce  tell  what — came  into 
her  head:  some  wild  wish  that  he  would  remain  always  there 
at  Stratford  :  would  she  not  right  willingly  discard  all  further 
thoughts  of  lovei's  or  sweethearts  if  only  he  would  speak  to 
her  sometimes  as  he  had  just  been  speaking;  and  approve  of 
her  hair ;  and  pei'chance  let  her  become  somewhat  more  of  a 
companion  to  him  ?  But  she  durst  not  venture  to  say  so  much. 
She  only  said,  very  modestly  and  timidly, 

"  I  am  content  to  be  as  I  am,  sir,  if  you  are  content  that  I 
should  bide  with  you." 

"Content?"  said  he,  with  a  laugh  that  had  no  unkindness 
in  it.  "Content  that  thou  shouldst  bide  with  us  ?  Keep  that 
pretty  face  of  thine  merry  and  glad,  good  lass— and  have  no 
fear." 


A  LETTER.  251 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

A  LETTER. 

When  she  should  get  back  from  Master  Leofric  Hope  the 
last  portion  of  the  yet  unnamed  play,  there  remained  (as  she 
considered)  hut  one  thing  more — to  show  him  the  letter  written 
by  the  King  to  her  father,  so  that  when  the  skies  should  clear 
over  the  young  gentleman's  head,  and  he  be  permitted  to  re- 
turn among  his  friends  and  acquaintances,  he  miglit  have 
something  else  occasionally  to  talk  of  than  Ben  Jonson  and  his 
masques  and  his  favor  at  court.  Nor  had  she  any  difficulty 
in  procuring  the  letter ;  for  Prudence  was  distinctly  of  opinion 
that  by  right  it  belonged  to  Judith,  who  had  coveted  it  from 
the  beginning.  However,  Judith  only  now  wanted  the  loan 
of  it  for  a  day  or  two,  until,  in  her  wanderings,  she  might  en- 
counter Master  Hope. 

That  opportunity  soon  arrived ;  for  whether  it  was  that  the 
young  gentleman  kept  a  sharp  lookout  for  her,  or  whether  she 
was  able  to  make  a  shrewd  guess  as  to  his  probable  whereabouts 
at  certain  hours  of  the  day,  she  had  scarcely  ever  failed  to  rpeet 
him  when  she  went  over  to  Shottery  for  the  successive  install- 
ments of  the  p]ay  that  he  had  left  for  her  there.  On  this  occa- 
sion she  had  found  the  last  of  these  awaiting  her  at  the  cottage; 
and  when  she  had  put  it  into  her  velvet  satchel,  and  bade  good- 
by  to  her  grandmother,  she  set  out  for  home  with  a  pretty  clear 
foreknowledge  that  sooner  or  later  the  young  gentleman  would 
appear.  Was  it  not  liis  duty  ? — to  say  what  he  thought  of  all 
this  romance  that  he  had  been  allowed  to  see ;  and  to  thank  her; 
and  say  farewell  ?  For  she  had  a  vague  impression  that  she 
had  done  as  much  as  could  reasonably  be  expected  of  her  in 
the  way  of  cheering  the  solitude  of  one  in  misfortune:  and  she 
had  gathered,  moreover,  that  he  was  likely  soon  to  leave  the 
neighborhood.  But  she  would  not  have  him  go  without  seeing 
the  King's  letter. 

Well,  when  he  stepped  forth  from  behind  some  trees,  she 
was  not  surprised;  and  even  the  Don  had  grown  accustomed 
to  these  sudden  appearances. 


252  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

"Give  ye  good-day,  sweet  lady, "said  he. 

"  And  to  you,  sir,"  she  said.  "  I  thanlc  you  for  your  care  in 
leaving  me  these  jjages ;  I  would  not  have  had  any  harm  come 
to  them,  even  though  my  father  will  in  time  throw  them  away." 

"And  my  thanks  to  you,  sweet  Mistress  Judith,"  said  he— 
"how  can  I  express  them?" — and  therewith  he  entered  upon 
such  a  eulogy  of  the  story  he  had  just  been  reading  as  she  was 
not  likely  to  hear  from  any  Stratford-born  acquaintance.  In- 
deed, he  spoke  well,  and  with  obvious  sincerity ;  and  although 
she  had  intended  to  receive  these  praises  Avith  indiflPerence  (as 
though  the  play  were  but  a  trifle  that  her  father  had  thrown 
off  easily  amid  the  pressure  of  other  labors),  she  did  not  quite 
succeed.  There  was  a  kind  of  triumph  in  her  eyes;  her  face 
was  glad  and  proud ;  when  he  quoted  a  bit  of  one  of  Ariel's 
songs,  she  laughed  lightly. 

"He  is  a  clever  musician,  that  merry  imp,  is  he  not?"  said 
she. 

"I  would  I  had  such  a  magic-woi'king  spirit  to  serve  me," 
said  he,  looking  at  her.  "  One  could  shape  one's  own  course 
then.  '  Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough,'  would  be 
my  motto;  there  would  be  no  going  back  to  London  or  any 
otherl-own.  And  what  think  you  :  might  he  not  find  out  for 
me  some  sweet  Miranda? — not  that  I  am  worthy  of  such  a 
prize,  or  could  do  aught  to  deserve  her,  except  in  my  duty  and 
humble  service  to  her.  The  Miranda,  I  think,  could  be  found," 
he  said,  glancing  timidly  at  her;  "  nay,  I  swear  I  know  myself 
where  to  find  just  such  a  beautiful  and  gentle  maiden;  but 
where  is  the  Ariel  that  would  charm  her  heart  and  incline  her 
to  pity  and  kindness  ?" 

"Here,  sir,"  said  she,  quickly,  "is  the  letter  I  said  I  would 
bi'ing  you,  that  the  King  wrote  to  my  father." 

He  did  not  look  at  the  blue  velvet  satchel ;  he  looked  at  her— 
perhaps  to  see  whether  he  had  gone  too  far.  But  she  did  not 
show  any  signs  of  confusion  or  resentment;  at  all  events 
she  pretended  not  to  be  conscious;  and,  for  one  thing,  her  eyes 
were  lowered,  for  the  satchel  seemed  for  a  second  or  so  difficult 
to  open.     Then  she  brought  forth  the  letter. 

"Perchance  you  can  tell  me  the  English  of  it,  good  sir?" 
said  she.  "  'Tis  some  time  since  Master  Blaise  read  it  for  us, 
and  I  would  hear  it  again." 


A  LETTER.  253 

"Nay,  I  fear  my  Latin  will  scarce  go  so  far,"  said  lie — "'tis 
but  little  practice  in  it  I  have  had  since  my  school-days ;  but 
I  will  try  to  make  out  the  sense  of  it." 

She  carefully  opened  the  large  folded  sheet  of  paper,  and 
handed  it  to  him.     This  was  what  he  found  before  him: 

"Jacobus  D.  G.  Rex  Anglorum  et  Scotorum  poetae  nostrp 
fideli  et  bene  dilecto  GuLiELMO  Shakespeare,  S.  P.  D. 

"Cum  nuper  apud  Londinium  commorati  comoediam  tuam 
nobis  inductam  spectassemus,  de  manu  viri  probi  Eugenii  Col- 
lins fabulae  libro  accepto,  operam  dedimus  ut  eam  diligenter 
pei^egeremus.  Subtilissima  ilia  quidem,  multisque  ingenii  lu- 
minibus  et  artis,  multis  etiam  animi  oblectamentis,  excogitata, 
nimis  tamen  accommodata  ad  cacchinationem  movendam 
vulgi  imperiti,  politioris  humanitatis  expertis.  Quod  vero  ad 
opera  tua  futura  attinet,  amicissime  te  admonemus  ut  multa 
commentatione  et  meditatione  exemplaria  verses  antistitum  il- 
lorum  artis  comoedicae,  Menandri  scilicet  Atheniensis  et  Plauti 
et  Toi-entii  Romani,  qui  minus  vulgi  plausum  captabant  quam 
vitiis  tanquam  flagellis  castigandis  studebant.  Qui  optimi 
erant  arte  et  summa  honestate  et  utilitate,  qualem  te  etiam  esse 
volumus ;  virtutum  artium  et  exercitationum  doctores,  atque  il- 
lustrium  illorum  a  Deo  ad  poi)ulum  regendum  pra^positorum 
adminicula.  Quibus  fac  ne  te  minorem  praestes;  neque  tibi 
nee  familiaribus  tuis  unquam  deerimus  quin,  quum  fiat  occasio, 
munere  regali  fungamur.  Te  interea  Deus  opt.  max.  feliciter 
sospitet. 

"  Datum  ex  regia  nostra  apud  Greenwich  X.  Kal.  Jun." 

He  began  his  translation  easily : 

"'To  our  trusty  and  well-beloved  poet,  William  Shake- 
speare: Health  and  greeting.'"  But  then  he  began  to  stam- 
mer. ' ' '  When  formerly — when  recently — tarrying  in  London 
— thy  comedy — thy  comedy' — nay,  fair  Mistress  Judith,  I  be- 
seech your  pardon;  I  am  grown  more  rusty  than  I  thought, 
and  would  not  destroy  your  patience.  Perchance,  now,  you 
would  extend  your  favor  once  more,  and  let  me  have  the  let- 
ter home  with  me,  so  that  I  might  spell  it  out  in  school-boy 
fashion  ?" 


254  JUDITH   SHAKESPEARE. 

She  hesitated ;  but  only  for  a  second. 

' '  Nay,  good  sir,  I  dare  not.  These  sheets  were  thrown  aside, 
and  so  far  of  little  account ;  but  this — if  aught  were  to  come 
amiss  to  this  letter,  how  should  I  regard  myself  ?  If  my  father 
value  it  but  slightly,  there  be  others  who  think  more  of  it ;  and 
— and  they  have  intrusted  it  to  me;  I  would  not  have  it  go 
out  of  my  own  keeping,  so  please  you,  and  pardon  me." 

It  was  clear  that  she  did  not  like  to  refuse  this  favor  to  so 
courteous  and  grateful  a  young  gentleman.  However,  her  face 
instantly  brightened. 

"But  I  am  in  no  hurry,  good  sir,"  said  she.  "Why  should 
you  not  sit  you  on  the  stile  there,  and  take  time  to  master  the 
letter,  while  I  gather  some  wild  flowers  for  my  father  ?  In 
truth,  I  am  in  no  hurry;  and  I  would  fain  have  you  know  what 
the  King  wrote." 

"I  would  I  were  a  school-boy  again  for  five  minutes, " said 
he,  with  a  laugh ;  but  he  went  obediently  to  the  stile,  and  sat 
down,  and  pi'oceeded  to  pore  over  the  contents  of  the  lettei'. 

And  then  she  wandered  off  by  herself  (so  as  to  leave  him 
quite  undisturbed),  and  began  to  gather  here  and  there  a  wild 
rose  from  the  hedge,  or  a  piece  of  meadow-sweet  from  the 
bank  beneath,  or  a  bit  of  yari'ow  from  among  the  grass.  It 
was  a  still,  clear,  quiet  day,  with  some  rainy  clouds  in  the  sky; 
and  beyond  these,  near  to  the  horizon,  broad  silver  shafts  of 
sunlight  striking  down  on  the  woods  and  the  distant  hills.  It 
looked  as  if  a  kind  of  mid-day  sleep  had  fallen  over  the  earth ; 
there  was  scarce  a  sound ;  the  birds  were  silent ;  and  there  was 
not  even  enough  wind  to  make  a  stirring  through  the  wide 
fields  of  wheat  or  in  the  elms.  The  nosegay  grew  apace, 
though  she  went  about  her  work  idly — kneeling  here  and 
stretching  a  hand  there;  and  always  she  kept  away  from  him, 
and  would  not  even  look  in  his  direction ;  for  she  was  deter- 
mined that  he  should  have  ample  leisure  to  make  out  the  sense 
of  the  letter,  of  which  she  had  but  a  vague  recollection,  only 
that  she  knew  it  was  complimentary. 

Even  when  he  rose  and  came  towai'd  her  she  pretended  not 
to  notice.  She  would  show  him  she  was  in  no  hurry.  She 
was  plucking  the  heads  of  red  clover,  and  sucking  them  to  get 
at  the  honey;  or  she  was  adding  a  buttercup  or  two  to  her  nose- 
gay; or  she  was  carelessly  humming  to  herself: 


A  LETTER.  355 

"  0  stay  and  hear;  your  true  lovers  coming, 
That  can  sing  both  high  aiid  low.'''' 

**Well,  now,  Mistress  Judith,"  said  he,  with  an  air  of  apolo- 
gy, "methinks  I  have  got  at  the  meaning  of  it,  however  im- 
perfectly ;  and  your  father  might  well  be  proud  of  such  a  com- 
mendation from  so  high  a  source — the  King,  as  every  one 
knows,  being  a  learned  man,  and  skilled  in  the  arts.  And  I 
have  not  heard  that  he  has  written  to  any  other  of  the  poets  of 
our  day — " 

"No,  sir ?"  said  she,  quickly.      "Not  to  Master  Jonson ?" 

"Not  that  I  am  aware  of,  sweet  lady,"  said  he,  "though  he 
hath  sometimes  messages  to  send,  as  you  may  suppose,  by  one 
coming  from  the  court.  And  I  marvel  not  that  your  father 
should  ilut  store  by  this  letter  that  speaks  well  of  his  work — " 

"Your  pardon,  good  sir,  but  'tis  not  so,"  said  Judith,  calmly. 
"Doubtless  if  the  King  commend  my  father's  writing,  that 
showeth  that  his  Majesty  is  skilled  and  learned,  as  you  say ; 
and  my  father  was  no  doubt  pleased  enough — as  who  would 
not  be  ? — by  such  a  mark  of  honor;  but  as  for  setting  great  val- 
ue on  it,  I  assure  you  he  did  not :  nay,  he  gave  it  to  Julius  Shawe. 
And  will  you  read  it,  good  sir  ? — I  remember  me  there  was 
something  in  it  about  the  ancients." 

' '  'Tis  but  a  rough  guess  that  I  can  make,"  said  he,  I'egarding 
the  paper.  "But  it  seems  that  the  King  had  received  at  the 
hands  of  one  Eugene  Collins  the  book  of  a  comedy  of  your  fa- 
ther's that  had  been  presented  before  his  Majesty  when  he  was 
recently  in  London.  And  very  diligently,  he  says,  he  has  read 
through  the  same;  and  finds  it  right  subtly  conceived,  with 
many  beauties  and  delights,  and  such  ornaments  as  are  to  be 
approved  by  an  ingenious  mind.  It  is  true  his  Majesty  hints 
that  there  may  be  parts  of  the  play  more  calculated  than  might 
be  to  move  the  laughter  of  the  vulgar;  but  you  would  not  have 
a  critic  have  nothing  but  praise? — and  the  King's  praise  is  high 
indeed.  And  then  he  goes  on  to  say  that  as  regards  your  fa- 
ther's future  work,  he  would  in  the  most  friendly  manner  ad- 
monish him  to  study  the  great  masters  of  the  comic  art ;  that  is, 
Menander  the  Athenian,  and  the  Romans  Plautus  and  Terentius, 
who  —who — what  says  the  King  ? — less  studied  to  capture  the 
applause  of  the  vulgar  than  to  lash  the  vices  of  the  day  as 
with  whips.     And  these  he  highly  commends  as  being  of  great 


256  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

service  to  the  state ;  and  would  have  your  father  be  the  like : 
teachers  of  virtue,  and  also  props  and  aids  to  those  whom  God 
hath  placed  to  rule  over  the  people.  He  would  have  your  fa- 
ther be  among  these  public  benefactors ;  and  then  he  adds  that, 
when  occasion  serves,  he  will  not  fail  to  extend  his  royal  favor 
to  your  father  and  his  associates ;  and  so  commends  him  to  the 
protection  of  God.  Nay,  'tis  a  right  friendly  letter;  there  is 
none  in  the  land  that  would  not  be  proud  of  it ;  'tis  not  every 
day  nor  with  every  one  that  King  James  would  take  such  trou- 
ble and  play  the  part  of  tutor." 

He  handed  her  the  letter,  and  she  proceeded  to  fold  it  up 
carefully  again  and  put  it  in  her  satchel.  She  said  nothing, 
but  she  hoped  that  these  phrases  of  commendation  would  re- 
main fixed  in  his  mind  when  that  he  was  returned  to  London. 

And  then  there  was  a  moment  of  embarrassment — or  at  least 
of  constraint.  He  had  never  been  so  near  the  town  with  her 
before  (for  his  praise  of  her  father's  comedy,  as  they  walked 
together,  had  taken  some  time),  and  there  before  them  were 
the  orchards  and  mud  walls,  and,  further  off,  the  spire  of  the 
church  among  the  trees.  She  did  not  like  to  bid  him  go,  and 
he  seemed  loath  to  say  farewell,  he  probably  having  some  dim 
notion  that,  now  he  had  seen  the  end  of  the  play  and  also  this 
letter,  there  might  be  some  difficulty  in  finding  an  excuse  for 
another  meeting. 

"When  do  you  return  to  London  ?"  said  she,  for  the  sake  of 
saying  something.  "  Or  may  you  return  ?  I  hope,  good  sir, 
your  j)rospects  are  showing  brighter;  it  must  be  hard  for  one 
of  your  years  to  j)ass  the  time  in  idleness." 

"The  time  that  I  have  spent  in  these  parts,"  said  he,  "has 
been  far  more  pleasant  and  joyful  to  me  than  I  could  have 
imagined — you  may  easily  guess  why,  dear  Mistress  Judith. 
And  now,  when  there  is  some  prospect  of  my  being  able  to 
go,  I  like  it  not ;  so  many  sweet  hours  have  been  passed  here, 
the  very  fields  and  meadows  around  have  acquired  a  charm — " 

' '  Nay,  but,  good  sir,"  said  she,  a  little  breathlessly,  "at  your 
time  of  life  you  would  not  waste  the  days  in  idleness." 

"  Li  truth  it  has  been  a  gracious  idleness!"  he  exclaimed. 

"At  your  time  of  life,"  she  repeated,  quickly,  "why,  to  be 
shut  up  in  a  farm — " 

"The  Prince  Fei'dinand,"  said  he,  "though  I  would  not 


A  LETTER.  257 

compare  myself  with  him,  found  the  time  pass  pleasantly  and 
sweetly  enough,  as  I  reckon,  though  he  was  shut  up  in  a  cave. 
Biit.  then  there  was  the  fair  Miranda  to  be  his  companion. 
Thei'e  is  no  Ariel  to  work  such  a  charm  for  me,  else  do  you 
think  I  could  ever  bring  myself  to  leave  so  enchanting  a  neigh- 
borhood ?' 

"Good  sir,"  said  she  (in  some  anxiety  to  get  away),  "  I  may 
not  ask  the  reason  of  your  being  in  hiding,  though  I  wish 
you  well,  and  would  fain  hear  there  was  no  further  occasion 
for  it.  And  I  trust  there  may  be  none  when  next  you  come 
to  Warwickshire,  and  that  those  of  our  household  who  have  a 
better  right  to  speak  for  it  than  I,  will  have  the  chance  of  en- 
tertaining you.     And  now  I  would  bid  you  farewell." 

"No,  dear  Judith!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  kind  of  entreaty 
in  his  voice.  "Not  altogether?  Why,  look  at  the  day! — 
would  you  have  me  say  farewell  to  you  on  such  a  day  of 
gloom  and  cloud  ?  Surely  you  will  let  me  take  away  a  bright- 
er picture  of  you,  and  Warwickshire,  and  of  our  brief  meetings 
in  these  quiet  spots — if  go  I  must.  In  truth  I  know  not  what 
may  happen  to  me;  I  would  speak  plainer;  bvit  I  am  no  free 
agent ;  I  can  but  beg  of  you  to  judge  me  charitably,  if  ever  you 
hear  aught  of  me — " 

And  liere  he  stopped  abruptly  and  paused,  considering,  and 
obviously  irresolute  and  perplexed. 

"Why,"  said  he  at  length,  and  almost  to  himself — "why 
should  I  go  away  at  all  ?  I  will  carry  logs — if  needs  be — or 
anything.     Why  should  I  go  ?" 

She  knew  instantly  what  he  meant;  and  knew,  also,  that  it 
was  high  time  for  her  to  escape  from  so  perilous  a  situation. 

"I  pray  you  pardon  me,  good  sir;  but  I  must  go.  Come, 
Don." 

"But  one  more  meeting,  sweet  Mistress  Judith,"  he  pleaded, 
"on  a  fairer  day  than  this — you  will  grant  as  much  ?" 

"I  may  not  promise,"  said  she;  "but  indeed  I  leave  with 
you  my  good  wishes;  and  so,  farewell!" 

"God  shield  you,  dearest  lady,"  said  he,  bowing  low ;  "you 
leave  with  me  also  a  memory  of  your  kindness  that  will  re- 
main in  my  heart." 

Well,  there  was  no  doubt  that  she  felt  very  much  relieved 
when  she  had  left  him  and  was  nearing  the  town ;  and  yet  she 


258  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

had  a  kind  of  pity  for  him  too,  as  she  thought  of  his  going- 
away  by  himself  to  that  lonely  farm:  one  so  gentle,  and  so 
grateful  for  company,  being  shut  up  there  on  this  gloomy  day. 
Whereas  she  was  going  back  to  a  cheerful  house;  Prudence 
was  coming  round  to  spend  the  afternoon  with  them,  and  help 
to  mark  the  new  napery ;  and  then  in  the  evening  the  whole  of 
them,  her  father  included,  were  going  to  sup  at  Dr.  Hall's,  who 
had  purchased  a  dishful  of  ancient  coins  in  one  of  his  peregri- 
nations, and  would  have  them  come  and  examine  them.  Per- 
haps, after  all,  that  reference  to  Miranda  was  not  meant  to 
apply  to  her.  It  was  but  natural  he  should  speak  of  Miranda, 
having  just  finished  the  play.  And  carrying  logs:  he  could 
not  mean  carrying  logs  for  her  father;  that  would  be  a  foolish 
jest.  No,  no ;  he  would  remain  at  the  farm  and  spend  the  time 
as  best  he  could ;  and  then,  when  this  cloud  blew  over,  he  would 
return  to  London,  and  carry  with  him  (as  she  hoped)  some  dis- 
creet rumor  of  the  new  work  of  her  father's  that  he  had  praised 
so  highly,  and  perchance  some  mention  of  the  compliments 
paid  by  the  King;  and  if,  in  course  of  time,  the  young  gentle- 
man should  make  his  way  back  to  Stratford  again,  and  come 
to  see  them  at  New  Place,  and  if  his  pleasant  manner  and  court- 
esy proved  to  be  quite  irresistible,  so  that  she  had  to  allow  the 
wizard's  prophecy  to  come  true  in  spite  of  herself,  why,  then,  it 
was  the  hand  of  fate,  and  none  of  her  doing,  and  she  would 
have  to  accept  her  destiny  with  as  good  a  grace  as  might  be. 

As  she  was  going  into  the  town  she  met  Tom  Quiney.  He 
was  on  the  other  side  of  the  roadway,  and  after  one  swift  glance 
at  her,  he  lowered  his  eyes,  and  would  have  passed  on  without 
speaking.  And  then  it  suddenly  occurred  to  her  that  she 
would  put  her  pride  in  her  pocket.  She  knew  quite  well  that 
her  maidenly  dignity  had  been  wounded  by  his  suspicions, 
and  that  she  ought  to  let  him  go  his  own  way  if  he  chose. 
But,  on  the  other  hand  (and  this  she  did  not  know),  there  was 
in  her  nature  an  odd  element  of  what  might  be  called  boyish 
generosity— of  frankness  and  common-sense  and  good  comrade- 
ship. And  these  two  had  been  very  stanch  comrades  in  for- 
mer days,  each  being  in  a  curious  manner  the  protector  of  the. 
Sther ;  for  while  she  many  a  time  came  to  his  aid— being  a  trifle 
older  than  he,  and  always  ready  with  her  quick  feminine  wit 
and  ingenuity  when  they  were  both  of  them  likely  to  get  into 


A  LETTER.  259 

trouble — he,  on  liis  side,  was  her  shield  and  bold  champion  by- 
reason  of  his  superior  stature  and  his  strength,  and  liis  terrible 
courage  in  face  of  bulls  or  barking  dogs  and  the  like.  For  the 
moment  she  only  thought  of  hiin  as  her  old  companion ;  and 
she  was  a  good-natured  kind  of  creature,  and  frank  and  boyish 
in  her  ways,  and  so  she  stepped  across  the  road,  though  there 
was  some  mud  about. 

"  Why  can't  we  be  friends  ?"  said  she. 

"You  have  enough  of  other  friends,"  said  he. 

It  was  a  rebuff;  but  still — she  would  keep  down  her  girlish 
pride. 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  going  away  from  the  country  ?"  said  she. 

He  did  not  meet  her  look ;  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  ground. 

"What  is  there  to  keep  me  in  it  ?"  was  his  answer. 

"Why,  what  is  there  to  keep  any  of  us  in  it?"  she  said. 
"  Heaven's  mercy,  if  we  were  all  to  run  away  when  we  found 
something  or  another  not  quite  to  our  liking,  what  a  fine  thing 
that  would  be !  Nay,  I  hope  there  is  no  truth  in  it,"  she  contin- 
ued, looking  at  him,  and  not  without  some  memories  of  their 
escapades  together  when  they  were  boy  and  girl.  "'Twould 
grieve  many — indeed  it  would.  I  pray  you  think  better  of  it. 
If  for  no  other,  for  my  sake:  we  used  to  be  better  friends." 

There  were  two  figures  now  approaching. 

"Oh,  here  come  Widow  Clemms  and  her  daughter,"  she 
said ;  "  a  rare  couple.  'Twill  be  meat  and  drink  to  them  to  car- 
ry back  a  story.  No  matter.  Now,  fare  you  well ;  but  pray 
think  better  of  it;  there  be  many  that  would  grieve  if  you 
went  away." 

He  stole  a  look  at  her  as  she  passed  on :  perhaps  there  was  a 
trifle  more  than  usual  of  color  in  her  radiant  and  sunny  face, 
because  of  the  approach  of  the  two  women.  It  was  a  lingering 
kind  of  look  that  he  sent  after  her;  and  then  he,  too,  turned 
and  went  on  his  way — cursing  the  parson. 

11 


260  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

A  VISITOR. 

Master  Leofric  Hope,  on  leaving  Judith,  returned  to  the 
farm,  but  not  to  the  solitude  that  had  awakened  her  commis- 
eration. When  he  entered  his  room,  which  was  at  the  back 
of  the  house,  and  facing  the  southern  horizon  (that  alone  show- 
ed some  streaks  of  sunlight  on  this  gloomy  day),  he  found  a 
stranger  there — and  a  stranger  who  had  evidently  some  notion 
of  making  himself  comfortable,  for  he  had  opened  the  window, 
and  was  now  sitting  on  the  sill,  and  had  just  begun  to  smoke 
his  pipe.  His  hat,  his  sword,  and  sword-belt  he  had  flung  on 
the  table. 

For  a  second  the  proper  owner  of  the  apartment  knew  not 
who  this  new  tenant  might  be — he  being  dark  against  the  light ; 
but  the  next  second  he  had  recognized  him,  and  that  with  no 
good  grace. 

"What  the  devil  brings  you  here  ?"  said  he,  sulkily. 

"A  hearty  welcome,  truly!"  the  other  said,  with  much  com- 
placency. ' '  After  all  my  vexation  in  finding  thee  out !  A 
goodly  welcome  for  an  old  friend !  But  no  matter.  Jack — 
come,  hast  naught  to  offer  one  to  drink  ?  I  have  ridden  from 
Banbury  this  morning;  and  the  plague  take  me  if  I  had  not 
enough  trouble  ere  I  found  the  hare  in  her  form.  But  'tis 
snug — 'tis  snug.  The  place  likes  me;  though  I  thought  by 
now  you  might  have  company,  and  entered  with  care.  Come, 
man,  be  more  friendly !  Will  you  not  ask  me  to  sit  ?  Must  I 
call  the  landlady — or  the  farmer's  wife— myself,  and  beg  for  a 
cup  of  something  on  so  hot  a  day  ?  Where  be  your  manners, 
Gentleman  Jack  ?" 

"What  the  devil  brings  you  into  Warwickshii'e  ?"  the  other 
repeated,  as  he  threw  his  hat  on  the  table,  and  dropped  into  a 
chair,  and  stretched  out  his  legs,  without  a  further  look  at  his 
companion. 

"  Nay,  'tis  what  the  devil  keeps  thee  here — that  is  the  graver 
question — though  I  know  the  answer  right  well.  Come,  Jack, 
be  i*easonable!     'Tis  for  thy  good  I  have  sought  thee  out. 


i! 

C3 

o 
s 

;^ 
CO 

O 


A  VISITOR.  263 

What,  man,  would  you  ruin  us  both  ? — for  I  tell  thee,  the  end 
is  pressing  and  near." 

Seeing  that  his  unwilling  host  would  not  even  turn  his  eyes 
toward  him,  he  got  down  from  tlie  window-sill,  and  came  along 
to  the  table,  and  took  a  chair.  He  was  a  short,  stout  young 
man,  of  puffy  face  and  red  hair,  good-natured  in  look,  but 
with  a  curious  glaze  in  his  light  blue-gray  eyes  that  told  of  the 
tavern  and  himself  being  pretty  close  comx^anions.  His  dress 
had  some  show  of  ornament  about  it,  though  it  was  rather 
travel-stained  and  shabby;  he  wore  jewelled  rings  in  his  ears; 
and  the  handkerchief  which  he  somewhat  ostentatiously  dis- 
played, if  the  linen  might  have  been  whiter,  was  elaborately  em- 
broidered with  thread  of  Coventry  blue.  For  the  rest,  he  spoke 
plaasantly  and  good-humoredly,  and  was  obviously  determined 
not  to  take  offense  at  his  anything  but  hearty  reception. 

"Hoy-day,"  said  he,  with  a  laugh,  "what  a  bother  I  had 
with  the  good  dame  here,  that  would  scarce  let  me  come  in ! 
For  how  knew  I  what  name  you  might  be  dancing  your  latest 
galliard  in  ?— not  plain  Jack  Orridge,  I'll  be  bound ! — what  is't, 
your  worship  ?— or  your  lordship,  perchance  ? — nay,  but  a  lord 
would  look  best  in  the  eyes  of  a  daughter  of  Will  Shakespeare, 
that  loveth  to  have  trumpets  and  drums  going,  and  dukes  and 
princes  stalking  across  his  boards.  But  "fore  Heaven,  now. 
Jack,"  said  he,  interrupting  himself,  and  sending  an  appealing 
look  round  the  room,  "have  you  naught  to  di'ink  in  the  house? 
Came  you  ever  to  my  lodging  and  found  such  scurvy  enter- 
tainment ?" 

The  reluctant  host  left  the  apartment  for  a  second  or  two, 
and  presently  returned,  followed  by  the  farmer's  wife,  who 
placed  on  the  table  a  jug  of  small  beer,  and  some  bread  and 
cheese.  The  bread  and  cheese  did  not  find  much  favor  with 
the  new-comer,  but  he  drank  a  large  horn  of  the  beer,  and  took 
to  his  pipe  again. 

"Come,  Jack,  be  friendly,"  said  he;  "'tis  for  thine  own 
good  I  have  sought  thee'out." 

"I  would  you  would  mind  your  own  business," the  other 
said,  with  a  sullen  frown  remaining  on  his  face. 

"Mine  and  yours  are  one,  as  I  take  it,  good  coz,"  his  com- 
panion said,  coolly ;  and  then  be  added,  in  a  more  friendly  way  ; 
"Come,  come,  man,  you  know  we  must  sink  or  swim  together 


264  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

And  sinking  it  will  be,  if  you  give  not  up  this  madcap  chase. 
Nay,  you  carry  the  jest  too  far,  mon  ami.  'Twas  a  right  mer- 
ry tale  at  the  beginning— the  sham  wizard,  and  your  coquetting 
with  Will  Shakespeai'e's  daughter  to  while  away  the  time; 
'twas  a  prank  would  make  them  roar  at  the  Cranes  in  the  Vin- 
try ;  and  right  well  done,  I  doubt  not — for,  in  truth,  if  you  were 
not  such  a  gallant  gentleman,  you  might  win  to  a  place  in  the 
theatres  as  well  as  any  of  them ;  but  to  come  back  here  again — 
to  hide  yourself  away  again — and  when  I  tell  you  they  will  no 
longer  forbear,  but  will  clap  thee  into  jail  if  they  have  not 
their  uttermost  penny — why,  'tis  pure  moonshine  madness  to 
risk  so  much  for  a  jest!" 

"I  tell  thee  'tis  no  jest  at  all !"  the  other  said,  angrily.  "  In 
Heaven's  name,  what  brought  you  here  ?" 

"  Am  I  to  have  no  care  of  myself,  then,  that  am  your  surety, 
and  have  their  threats  from  hour  to  hour  ?" 

He  laughed  in  a  stupid  kind  of  way,  and  filled  out  some 
more  beer  and  drank  it  off  thirstily. 

"  We  had  a  merry  night,  last  night,  at  Banbury,"  said  he. 
"I  must  pluck  a  hair  of  the  same  wolf  to-day.  And  what  say 
you  ?  No  jest  ?  Nay,  you  look  sour  enough  to  be  virtuous, 
by  my  life,  or  to  get  into  a  pulpit  and  preach  a  sermon  against 
fayles  and  tick-tack,  as  wiles  of  the  devil.  No  jest  ?  Have  you 
been  overthrown  at  last  —  by  a  country  wench?  Must  you 
take  to  the  plough,  and  grow  turnips  ?  Why,  I  should  as  soon 
expect  to  see  Gentleman  Jack  consort  with  the  Finsbury  arch- 
ers, or  go  a-ducking  to  Islington  ponds !  Our  Gentleman  Jack 
a  farmer!  The  price  of  wheat,  goodman  Dickon  ? — how  fat- 
ten your  pigs  ? — will  the  fine  weather  last,  think  you  ?  Have 
done  with  this  foolery,  man !  If  all  comes  to  the  worst,  'twere 
better  we  should  take  to  the  road,  you  and  I,  and  snip  a  purse 
when  chance  might  serve." 

"You?"  said  his  companion,  with  only  half -concealed  con- 
tempt. "The  first  click  of  a  pistol  would  find  you  behind  a 
hedge." 

"Why,  old  lad,"  said  the  other  (who  did  not  seem  to  have 
heard  that  remark,  during  his  pouring  out  of  another  hornful 
of  beer),  "I  know  you  better  than  you  know  yourself.  This 
time,  you  say,  'tis  serious  —  ay,  but  how  many  times  before 
hast  thou  said  the  same  ?     And  ever  the  wench  is  the  fairest 


A  VISITOR.  265 

of  her  kind,  and  a  qvieen !  For  how  long  ? — a  fortnight ! — 
perchance  three  weeks.  Oh,  the  wonder  of  her !  And  'tis  all 
a  love-worship;  and  tlie  praising  of  her  hands  and  ankles;  and 
Tom  Morley's  ditty  about  a  lover  and  his  lass, 

'That  through  the  green  corn  fields  did  pass 
In  the  pretty  spring-time, 
Ring-a-ding-diug !' 

Ay,  for  a  fortnight;  and  then  Gentleman  Jack  discovers  that 
some  wench  of  the  Bankside  hatli  brighter  eyes  and  freer  fa- 
vors than  the  country  beauty,  and  you  hear  no  more  of  him 
until  he  has  ne'er  a  penny  left,  and  comes  begging  his  friends 
to  be  sui'ety  for  him,  or  to  write  to  his  grandam  at  Oxford, 
saying  how  virtuous  a  youth  he  is,  and  in  how  sad  a  plight. 
Good  Lord,  that  were  an  end ! — should  you  have  to  go  back 
to  the  old  dame  at  last,  and  become  tapster — no  moi'e  acting  of 
your  lordship  and  worship — what  ho,  there!  thou  lazy  knave, 
a  flask  of  Rhenish,  and  put  speed  into  thy  rascal  heels!" 

The  cloud  on  his  companion's  face  had  been  darkening. 

"Peace,  drunken  fool !"  he  muttered — but  between  his  teeth, 
for  he  did  not  seem  to  wish  to  anger  this  stranger. 

"Come,  come,  man,"  the  other  said,  jovially,  "unwitch 
thee!  unwitch  thee!  Fetch  back  thy  senses.  What? — 
wouldst  thou  become  a  jest  and  by-Avord  for  every  tavern  table 
between  tlie  Temple  and  the  Tower  ?  Nay,  I  can  not  believe  it 
of  thee.  Jack.  Serious  ?  Ay,  as  you  have  been  twenty  times 
before.  Lord,  what  a  foot  and  ankle !— and  she  the  queen  o'  the 
world — the  rose  and  crown  and  queen  o'  the  world — and  the 
sighing  o'  moonlight  nights — 

'  M/f/uonne,  tant  je  vons  aime, 
Mais  vous  nc  ra'aimcz  pas' — 

and  we  are  all  to  be  virtuous  and  live  cleanly  for  the  i*est 
of  our  lives;  but  the  next  time  you  see  Gentleman  Jack,  lo, 
you,  now! — 'tis  at  the  Bear -house;  his  pockets  lined  with 
angels  wrung  from  old  Ely  of  Queenhithe;  and  as  for  his  com- 
pany— Lord !  Lord !  And  as  it  hath  been  before,  so  'twill  be 
again,  as  said  Solomon  the  wise  man;  only  that  this  time — 
mark  you  now.  Jack— this  time  it  were  well  if  you  came  to 
your  senses  at  once;  for  I  tell  thee  that  Ely  and  the  rest  of 
them  have  lost  all  patience,  and  they  know  this  much  of  thy 


266  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

Stratford  doings,  that  if  they  can  not  exactly  name  thy  where- 
about, they  can  come  within  a  stone's-cast  of  thee.  And  if 
I  come  to  warn  thee— as  is  the  office  of  a  true  friend  and  an  old 
companion — why  shouldst  thou  sit  there  with  a  sulky  face, 
man  ?     Did  I  ever  treat  thee  so  in  Fetter  Lane  ?" 

Wliile  he  had  been  talking,  a  savory  odor  had  begun  to 
steal  into  the  apartment,  aitd  presently  the  farmer's  wife  ap- 
peared, and  proceeded  to  spread  the  cloth  for  dinner.  Her 
lodger  had  given  no  orders;  but  she  had  taken  his  return  as 
sufficient  signal,  and  naturally  she  assumed  that  his  friend 
would  dine  Avith  him.  Accordingly,  in  due  course,  there  was 
placed  on  the  board  a  smoking  dish  of  cow-heel  and  bacon, 
with  abundance  of  ale  and  other  garnishings;  and  as  this 
fare  seemed  more  tempting  to  the  new-comer  than  the  bread 
and  cheese,  he  needed  no  pressing  to  draw  his  chair  to  the  table. 
It  was  not  a  sumptuous  feast;  but  it  had  a  beneficial  effect  on 
both  of  them — sobering  the  one,  and  rendering  the  other  some- 
what more  placable.  Master  Leofric  Hope — as  he  had  styled 
himself — was  still  in  a  measure  taciturn  ;  but  his  guest — whose 
name,  it  appeared,  was  Francis  Lloyd — had  ceased  his  uncom- 
fortable banter;  and  indeed  all  his  talk  now  was  of  the  charms 
and  wealth  of  a  certain  widow  who  lived  in  a  house  near  to 
Gray's  Inn,  on  the  road  to  Hampstead.  He  had  been  asked  to 
dine  with  the  widow;  and  he  gave  a  magniloquent  description 
of  the  state  she  kept— of  her  serving-men,  and  her  fuimiture, 
and  her  plate,  and  the  manner  in  which  she  entertained  her 
friends. 

"  And  why  was  I,"  said  he — "  why  was  poor  Frank  Lloyd — 
that  could  scarce  get  the  wherewithal  to  pay  for  a  rose  for  his 
ear — why  was  he  picked  out  for  so  great  a  favor  ?  Why,  but 
that  he  was  known  to  be  a  friend  of  handsome  Jack  Orridge. 
'  Wliere  be  your  friend  Master  Orridge,  now  ?'  she  says,  for  she 
hath  sometimes  a  country  trick  in  her  speech,  hath  the  good 
lady.  '  Business,  madam — affairs  of  great  import,'  I  say  to  her, 
'keep  him  still  in  the  country.'  Would  I  tell  her  the  wolves 
were  Avaiting  to  rend  you  should  you  be  heard  of  anywhere 
within  London  city  ?  '  Handsome  Jack,  they  call  him,  is't  not 
so  ?'  says  she.  Would  I  tell  her  thou  wert  called  '  Gentleman 
Jack  ?'  as  if  thou  hadst  but  slim  right  to  the  title.  Then  says 
she  to  one  of  the  servants,  '  Fill  the  gentleman's  cup.'     Lord, 


A  VISITOR.  267 

Jack,  what  a  sherris  that  was ! — 'twas  meat  and  drink ;  a  thing 
to  put  marrow  in  your  bones — cool  and  clear  it  was,  and  rich 
withal — cool  on  the  tongue  and  warm  in  tlie  stomach.  'Fore 
Heaven,  Jack,  if  thou  hast  not  ever  a  cup  of  that  wine  ready  for 
me  when  I  visit  thee,  I  will  say  thou  hast  no  more  gratitude 
than  a  toad.  And  then  says  she  to  all  the  company  (raising 
her  glass  the  while),  '  Absent  friends' ;  but  she  nods  and  smiles 
to  me,  as  one  would  say :  '  We  know  whom  we  mean ;  we  know. ' 
Lord,  that  sherris.  Jack !  I  have  the  taste  of  it  in  my  mouth 
now;  I  dream  o'  nights  there  is  a  jug  of  it  by  me." 

"Dreaming  or  waking,  there  is  little  else  in  thy  head,"  said 
the  other;  "nor  in  thy  stomach,  either." 

"Is  it  a  bargain,  Jack  ?"  lie  said,  looking  up  from  his  plate 
and  regarding  his  companion  with  a  fixed  look. 

"A  bargain  V 

"I  tell  thee  'tis  the  only  thing  will  save  us  now."  Tliis 
Frank  Lloyd  said  with  more  seriousness  than  he  had  hitherto 
shown.  "Heavens,  man,  you  must  cease  this  idling;  I  tell 
thee  they  are  not  in  the  frame  for  further  delay.  'Tis  the 
Widow  Becket  or  the  King's  liigliway,  one  or  t'other,  if  you 
would  remain  a  free  man  ;  and  as  for  tlie  highway,  why,  'tis  an 
uncei'tain  trade,  and  I  know  that  Gentleman  Jack  is  no  lover 
of  broken  heads.  What  else  would  you  ?  Liv^e  on  in  a  hole 
like  this  ?  Nay,  but  they  would  not  suffer  you.  I  tell  you 
they  are  ready  to  hunt  you  out  at  this  present  moment.  Go 
beyond  seas  ?  Ay,  and  forsake  the  merry  nights  at  the  Cranes 
and  the  Silver  Hind  ?  When  thy  old  grandam  is  driven  out 
of  all  patience,  and  will  not  even  forth  with  a  couple  of  shil- 
lings to  buy  you  wine  and  radish  for  your  breakfast,  'tis  a  bad 
case.  Wouldst  go  down  to  Oxford  and  become  tapster  ? — Gen- 
tleman Jack,  that  all  of  them  think  hath  fine  fat  acres  in  the 
west  country,  and  a  line  of  ancestors  reaching  back  to  Noah 
the  sailor  or  Adam  gardener.  Come,  man,  unwitch  thee! 
Collect  thy  senses.  If  this  sorry  jest  of  thine  be  gix)wing  serious 
— and  I  confess  I  had  some  thought  of  it,  when  you  would 
draw  on  Harry  Condell  for  the  mere  naming  of  the  wench's 
name — then,  o'  Heaven's  name,  come  away  and  get  thee  out  of 
such  foolery !  I  tell  thee  thou  art  getting  near  an  end,  o'  one 
way  or  another;  and  wouldst  thou  have  me  broken  too,  that 
have  ever  helped  thee,  and  shared  my  last  penny  with  thee?" 


368  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

"Broken?"  said  his  friend,  with  a  laugh.  "  If  there  he  any 
in  the  country  more  hi'oken  than  you  and  I  are  at  this  moment, 
Frank,  I  wish  them  luck  of  their  fortunes.  But  still  there  is 
somewhat  for  you.  You  have  not  pawned  those  jewels  in  your 
ears  yet.  And  your  horse — you  rode  hither,  said  you  not  ? — 
well,  I  trust  it  is  a  goodly  beast,  for  it  may  have  to  save  thee 
from  starvation  ere  long." 

"Nay,  ask  me  not  how  I  came  by  the  creature,"  said  he, 
"but  'tis  not  mine,  I  assure  ye." 

"Whose,  then?" 

Master  Frank  Lloyd  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"If  you  can  not  guess  my  errand," said  he,  "you  can  not 
guess  who  equipped  me." 

"Nay," said  his  friend,  who  was  now  in  a  much  better  hu- 
mor, "read  me  no  riddles,  Frank.  I  would  fain  know  who 
knew  thee  so  little  as  to  lend  thee  a  horse  and  see  thee  ride  forth 
with  it.     Who  was't,  Frank  ?" 

His  companion  looked  up  and  regarded  him. 

"The  Widow  Becket,"he  answered,  coolly. 

"What?"  said  the  other, laughing.  "Art  thou  so  far  in  the 
good  dame's  graces,  and  yet  would  have  me  go  to  London  and 
marry  her?" 

"  'Tis  no  laughing  matter,  Master  Jack,  as  you  may  find  out 
ere  long,"  the  other  said.  "The  good  lady  lent  me  the  horse, 
'tis  true;  else  how  could  I  have  come  all  the  way  into  War- 
wickshire?— ay,  and  lent  me  an  angel  or  two  to  appease  the 
villain  landlords.  I  tell  thee  she  is  as  bountiful  as  the  day. 
Lord,  what  a  house ! — I'll  take  my  oath  that  Master  Butler  hath 
a  good  fat  capon  and  a  bottle  of  claret  each  evening  for  his  sup- 
per— if  he  have  not,  his  face  belieth  him.  And  think  you  she 
would  be  niggard  with  Handsome  Jack  ?  Nay,  but  a  gentle- 
man must  have  his  friends;  ay,  and  his  suppers  at  the  tavern, 
when  the  play  is  over;  and  store  of  pieces  in  his  purse  to 
make  you  good  company.  Why,  man,  thy  fame  would  spread 
through  the  Blackf riars,  I  warrant  you :  where  is  the  hostess 
that  would  not  simper  and  ogle  and  court'sy  to  Gentleman  Jack, 
when  that  he  came  among  them,  slapping  the  purse  in  his 
pouch  ?" 

"  'Tis  a  fair  pictui'e,"  his  friend  said.  "  Thy  wits  liave  been 
sharpened  by  thy  long  ride,  Frank.     And  think  you  the  buxom 


A  VISITOR.  269 

widow  would  consent,  were  one  to  make  bold  and  ask  her  ?    Nay, 
nay;  'tis  thy  dire  need  hath  driven  thee  to  this  excess  of  fancy." 

For  answer  Master  Lloyd  proceeded  to  bring  forth  a  small 
box,  which  he  opened,  and  took  therefi'om  a  finger  ring.  It 
was  a  man's  ring,  of  massive  setting;  the  stone  of  a  deep  blood 
red,  and  graven  with  an  intaglio  of  a  Roman  bust.  He  push- 
ed it  across  the  table. 

"The  horse  was  lent,"  said  he,  darkly.  "That — if  it  please 
you — you  may  keep  and  wear." 

"What  mean  you  ?"  Leofric  Hope  said,  in  some  surprise. 

"  '  I  name  no  thing,  and  I  mean  no  thing,'  "  said  he,  quoting 
a  phrase  from  a  popular  ballad.  "  If  you  understand  not,  'tis 
a  pity.  I  may  not  speak  more  plainly.  But  bethink  you  that 
poor  Frank  Lloyd  was  not  likely  to  have  the  means  of  pur- 
chasing thee  sucli  a  pretty  toy,  muclr  as  he  would  like  to 
please  his  old  friend.  Nay,  canst  thou  not  see.  Jack  ?  'Tis  a 
message,  man !  Moi*e  I  may  not  say.  Take  it  and  wear  it,  good 
lad ;  and  come  back  boldly  to  London ;  and  we  will  face  the  har- 
pies, and  live  as  free  men,  ere  a  fortnight  be  over.  What? — 
must  I  speak?  Nay,  an'  you  understand  not,  I  will  tell  no 
more." 

He  understood  well  enough ;  and  he  sat  for  a  second  or  two 
moodily  regarding  the  ring;  but  he  did  not  take  it  up.  Then 
he  rose  from  the  table,  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
room. 

"Frank,"  said  he,  "  couldst  thou  but  see  this  wench — " 

" Nay,  nay,  spare  me  the  catalogue,"  his  friend  answered, 
quickly.  "I  heard  thee  declare  that  Ben  Jonson  had  no 
words  to  say  how  fair  she  was:  would  you  better  his  descrip- 
tion and  overmaster  him  ?  And  fair  or  not  fair,  'tis  all  the 
same  with  thee;  any  petticoat  can  bewitch  thee  out  of  thy 
senses:  Black  Almaine  or  New  Almaine  may  be  the  tune,  but 
'tis  ever  the  same  dance;  and  such  a  heaving  of  sighs  and  de- 
spair ! — 

'  Tliy  gown  was  of  the  grassy  gi'een, 
Thy  sleeves  of  satin  hanging  by ; 
"Which  made  thee  be  our  harvest  queen — 
And  yet  thou  wouldst  not  love  me.' 

'Tis  a  pleasant  pastime,  friend  Jack ;  but  there  comes  an  end. 
I  know  not  which  be  the  worse,  wenches  or  usurers,  for  land- 

11* 


270  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

ing  a  poor  lad  in  jail;  but  both  together,  Jack — and  that  is 
thy  case — they  are  not  like  to  let  thee  escape.  'Tis  not  to  every 
one  in  such  a  plight  there  cometli  a  talisman  like  that  pretty 
toy  there :  beshrew  me,  what  a  thing  it  is  in  this  world  to  have 
a  goodly  presence !" 

He  now  rose  from  the  table  and  went  to  the  door,  and  called 
aloud  for  some  one  to  bring  him  a  light.  Wlien  that  was 
brought,  and  his  pipe  set  going,  he  sat  him  down  on  the  bench 
by  the  empty  fire-place,  for  the  seat  seemed  comfortable,  and 
there  he  smoked  with  much  content,  while  his  friend  continued 
to  pace  up  and  down  the  apartment,  meditating  over  his  own 
situation,  and  seemingly  not  over  well  pleased  with  the  survey. 

Presently  something  in  one  of  the  pigeon-holes  over  the  fire- 
place attracted  the  attention  of  the  visitor;  and  having  nothing 
better  to  do  (for  he  would  leave  his  friend  time  to  ponder  over 
what  he  had  said),  he  rose  and  pulled  forth  a  little  bundle  of 
sheets  of  paper  that  opened  in  his  hand  as  he  sat  down  again. 

"What's  this.  Jack  ?"  said  he.  "Hast  become  playwright  ? 
Surely  all  of  this  preachment  is  not  in  praise  of  the  fair  damsel's 
eyebrows  ?" 

His  friend  turned  round;  saw  what  he  had  got  hold  of,  and 
laughed. 

"That,  now,"  said  he,  "were  something  to  puzzle  the  wits 
with,  were  one  free  to  go  to  London.  I  had  some  such  jest 
in  mind;  but  perchance  'twas  moi^e  of  idleness  that  made 
me  copy  out  the  play." 

' '  'Tis  not  yours,  then  ?  Whose  ?"  said  Master  Frank  Lloyd, 
looking  over  the  pages  with  some  curiosity. 

"Whose?  Why,  'tis  by  one  Will  Shakespeare,  tliat  you 
may  have  heard  of.  Would  it  not  puzzle  them,  Frank  ? 
Were  it  not  a  good  jest,  now,  to  lay  it  before  some  learned  crit- 
ic and  ask  his  worship's  opinion  ?  Or  to  i-ead  it  at  tlie  Silver 
Hind  as  of  thy  writing  ?  Would  not  Dame  Margery  weep  with 
joy  ?    Out  upon  the  Mermaid ! — have  we  not  poets  of  our  own  ?" 

He  had  drawn  near,  and  was  looking  down  at  the  sheets 
that  his  friend  was  examining. 

"I  tell  thee  this,  Jack,"  the  latter  said,  in  his  cool  way, 
"there  is  more  than  a  jest  to  be  got  out  of  a  play  by  Will 
Shakespeare.  Would  not  the  booksellers  give  us  tlie  price  of 
a  couple  of  nags  for  it  if  we  were  j)ressed  so  far  ?" 


AN  APPEAL.  271 

"Mind  thine  own  business,  fool!"  was  the  angry  rejoinder; 
and  ere  he  knew  what  had  happened  his  hands  were  empty. 

And  at  that  same  moment,  away  over  there  in  Stratford 
town,  Juditli  was  in  the  garden,  trying  to  teach  little  Bess 
Hall  to  dance,  and  merrily  laughing  the  while.  And  when 
the  dancing  lesson  was  over  she  would  try  a  singing  lesson ; 
and  now  the  child  was  on  Judith's  shoulder,  and  had  hold  of 
her  bonny  sun-brown  curls. 

"  Well  done,  Bess;  well  done!     Now  again — 


'  The  hunt  is  up — tlie  hunt  is  ^ij. 
Awake,  my  lady  dear! 
O  a  morn  in  spring  is  the  sweetest  thing 
Cometh  in  all  the  year  P 

Well  done  indeed!     Will  not  my  father  praise  thee,  lass;  and 
what  more  wouldst  thou  have  for  all  tliy  pains  ?" 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

AN  APPEAL. 


Great  changes  were  in  store.  To  begin  with,  there  were 
rumors  of  her  father  being  about  to  return  to  London.  Then 
Dr.  Hall  was  summoned  away  into  Worcestershire  by  a  great 
lady  living  there,  who  was  continually  fancying  her.self  at  the 
brink  of  death,  and  manifesting  on  such  occasions  a teiTor  not  at 
all  in  consonance  with  her  professed  assurance  that  she  was  go- 
ing to  a  happier  sphere.  As  it  was  possible  that  Dr.  Hall  would 
seize  this  opportunity  to  pay  several  other  professional  visits  in 
the  neighboring  county,  it  was  proposed  tliat  Susan  and  her 
daughter  should  come  for  a  while  to  New  Place,  and  that  Ju- 
dith should  at  the  same  time  go  and  stay  with  her  grandmo- 
ther at  Shotteiw,  to  cheer  the  old  dame  somewhat.  And  so  it 
happened,  on  this  July  morning,  that  Judith's  mother  having 
gone  round  to  see  her  elder  daughter  about  all  these  arrange- 
ments, Judith  found  herself  not  only  alone  in  the  house,  but, 
as  rarely  chanced,  with  nothing  to  do. 

She  tried  to  extract  some  music  froni  her  sister's  lute,  but 
that  was- a  failure;  she  tried  half  a  dozen  other  things;  and 


272  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

then  it  occurred  to  her — for  the  morning  was  fine  and  clear, 
and  she  was  fond  of  the  meadows  and  of  open  air  and  sunlight 
— that  she  would  walk  round  to  the  grammar  school  and  beg 
for  a  half-holiday  for  Willie  Hart.  He,  as  well  as  Bess  Hall, 
was  under  her  tuition ;  and  there  were  things  she  could  teach 
him  of  quite  as  much  value  (as  she  considered)  as  anything  to 
be  learned  at  a  desk.  At  the  same  time,  before  going  to  meet 
the  staring  eyes  of  all  those  boys,  she  tliought  she  might  as 
well  repair  to  her  own  room  and  smarten  up  her  attire — even 
to  the  extent,  perhaps,  of  putting  on  her  gray  beaver  hat  with 
the  row  of  brass  beads. 

That  was  not  at  all  necessai-y.  Nothing  of  the  kind  was 
needful  to  make  Judith  Shakespeare  attractive  and  fascinating 
and  wonderful  to  that  crowd  of  lads.  The  fact  was,  the  whole 
school  of  them  were  more  or  less  secretly  in  love  with  her; 
and  this,  so  far  from  procuring  Willie  Hart  such  bumps  and 
thrashings  as  he  might  have  received  from  a  solitary  rival, 
gained  for  him,  on  the  contrary,  a  mysterious  favor  and  good- 
will that  showed  itself  in  a  hundi^ed  subtle  ways.  For  he 
was  in  a  measure  the  dispenser  of  Judith's  patronage.  When 
he  was  walking  along  the  street  with  her  he  would  tell  her  the 
name  of  this  one  or  that  of  his  companions  (in  case  she  had 
forgotten),  and  she  would  stop  and  speak  to  him  kindly,  and 
hope  he  was  getting  on  well  with  his  tasks.  Also  the  other 
lads,  on  tlie  strength  of  Willie  Hart's  intermediation,  would 
now  make  bold  to  say,  with  great  politeness,  "Give  ye  good- 
morrow,  Mistress  Judith,"  when  they  met  her,  and  sometimes 
she  would  pause  for  a  moment  and  chat  with  one  of  them,  and 
make  some  inquiries  of  him  as  to  whether  her  cousin  did  not 
occasionally  need  a  little  help  in  his  lessons  from  the  bigger 
boys.  Tiien  there  was  a  kind  of  fury  of  assistance  instantly 
promised ;  and  the  youth  would  again  remember  his  good  man- 
ners, and  bid  her  formally  farewell,  and  go  on  his  way,  with 
his  heart  and  his  cheeks  alike  afire,  and  his  brain  gone  a-dan- 
cing.  Even  that  dread  being,  the  head-master,  had  no  frown 
for  her  when  she  went  boldly  up  to  his  desk,  in  the  very  middle 
of  the  day's  duties,  to  demand  some  favor.  Nay,  he  would 
rather  detain  her  with  a  little  pleasant  conversation,  and 
would  at  times  become  almost  facetious  (at  sight  of  which  the 
spirits  of  the  whole  school  rose  into  a  seventh  heaven  of  equa- 


AN  APPEAL.  273 

nimity).  And  always  she  got  what  she  wanted  ;  and  gen- 
erally, before  leaving,  she  would  give  one  glance  down  the 
rows  of  oaken  benches,  singling  out  her  friends  here  and  there, 
and,  alas !  not  thinking  at  all  of  the  deadly  wounds  she  was 
thus  dealing  with  those  lustrous  and  shining  eyes. 

Well,  on  this  morning  she  had  no  difficulty  in  rescuing  her 
cousin  from  the  dull  captivity  of  the  school-room ;  and  hand  in 
hand  they  went  along  and  down  to  the  river-side  and  to  the 
meadows  there.  But  seemingly  slie  had  no  wish  to  get  much 
farther  from  the  town;  for  the  truth  was  that  she  lacked  as- 
surance as  yet  that  Master  Leof ric  Hope  had  left  that  neighbor- 
hood; and  she  was  distinctly  of  a  mind  to  avoid  all  further 
communications  with  him  until,  if  ever,  he  should  be  able  to 
come  forward  openly  and  declare  himself  to  the  small  world 
in  which  she  lived.  Accordingly  she  did  not  lead  Willie  Hart 
far  along  the  river-side  path ;  they  rather  kept  to  seeking  about 
the  banks  and  hedge-rows  for  wild  flowers — the  pink  and  white 
bells  of  the  bind-weed  she  was  mostly  after,  and  these  did  not 
abound  there — until  at  last  they  came  to  a  stile;  and  there  she 
sat  down,  and  would  have  her  cousin  sit  beside  her,  so  that 
she  should  give  him  some  further  schooling  as  to  all  that  he 
was  to  do  and  think  and  be  in  the  coming  yeai's.  '  She  had 
far  other  things  than  Lilly's  Grammar  to  teach  him.  The  Sen- 
tentiae  Pueriles  contained  no  instructions  as  to  how,  for  exam- 
ple, a  modest  and  well-conducted  youth  should  approach  his 
love-maiden  to  discover  whether  her  heart  was  well  inclined 
toward  him.  And  although  her  timid-eyed  pupil  seemed  to 
take  but  little  interest  in  the  fair  creature  that  was  thus  being 
provided  for  him  in  the  future,  and  was  far  more  anxious  to 
know  how  he  was  to  win  Judith's  approval,  either  now  or  then, 
still  he  listened  contentedly  enough,  for  Judith's  voice  was 
soft  and  musical.  Nay,  he  put  that  imaginary  person  out  of 
his  mind  altogether.  It  was  Judith,  and  Judith  alone,  whom 
he  saw  in  these  forecasts.  Would  he  have  any  other  suppUxnt 
her  in  his  dreams  and  visions  of  Avhat  was  to  be?  This  world 
around  him — the  smooth-flowing  Avon,  the  wooded  banks,  the 
wide  white  skies,  the  meadows  and  fields  and  low-lying  hills: 
was  not  she  the  .very  spirit  and  central  life  and  light  of  all 
these?  Without  her,  what  would  these  be  ? — dead  things;  the 
mystery  and  wonder  gone  out  of  them ;  a  world  in  darkness. 


274  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

But  lie  could  not  think  of  that ;  the  world  he  looked  forward 
to  was  filled  with  light,  for  Judith  was  there,  the  touch  of  her 
hand  as  gentle  as  ever,  her  ejes  still  as  kind. 

"So  must  you  be  accomplished  at  all  points,  sweetheart," 
she  was  continuing,  "  that  you  shame  her  not  in  any  company, 
whatever  the  kind  of  it  may  be.  If  they  be  grave,  and  speak 
of  the  affairs  of  the  realm,  then  must  you  know  how  the  coun- 
try is  governed,  as  becomes  a  man  (though,  being  a  woman^ 
alack!  I  can  not  help  you  there),  and  you  must  have  opinions 
about  what  is  best  for  England,  and  be  ready  to  uphold  them, 
too.  Then,  if  the  company  be  of  a  gayer  kind,  again  you  shall 
not  shame  her,  but  take  part  in  all  the  merriment;  and  if  there 
be  dancing,  you  shall  not  go  to  the  door,  and  hang  about  like  a 
booby;  you  must  know  the  new  dances,  every  one;  for  would 
you  have  your  sweetheart  dance  with  others,  and  you  standing 
by?  That  were  a  spite,  I  take  it,  for  both  of  you ! — nay,  would 
not  the  wench  be  angry  to  be  so  used?  Let  me  see,  now — 
what  is  the  name  of  it  ? — the  one  that  is  danced  to  the  tune  of 
'  The  Mei'chant's  Daughter  went  over  the  Field'  ? — have  I 
shown  you  that,  sweetheart  ?" 

"I  know  not.  Cousin  Judith,"  said  he. 

"Come,  then,"  said  she,  blithely;  and  she  took  him  by  the 
hand  and  placed  him  opposite  her  in  the  meadow.  ' '  Look  you, 
now,  the  four  at  the  top  cross  hands — so  (you  must  imagine  the 
other  two,  sweetheart);  and  all  go  round  once — so;  and  then 
they  change  hands,  and  go  back  the  other  way — so ;  and  then 
each  takes  his  own  partner,  and  away  they  go  round  the  circle, 
and  back  to  their  place.  Is  it  not  simple,  cousin?  Come,  now, 
let  us  try  properly." 

And  so  they  began  again;  and  for  music  she  lightly  hum- 
med a  verse  of  a  song  that  was  commonly  sung  to  the  same 

tune: 

Maid,  will  i/oii  love  me,  yes  or  no? 
Tell  me  the  truth,  and  let  me  go. 

"  The  other  hand, Willie— quick!" 

It  can  he  no  less  than  a  sinful  deed, 

( Trust  me  truhi) 
To  linger  a  lover  that  looks  to  speed 

{III  due  time  dull/). 

"Why,  is  it  not  simple!"  she  said,  laughing.      "But,  now, 


AN  APPEAL.  275 

instead  of  crossing  hands,  I  think  it  far  the  prettier  Avay  that 
they  should  hold  their  hands  up  together — so :  shall  we  try  it, 
sweetheart?" 

And  then  she  had  to  sing  another  verse  of  the  ballad: 

Consider,  sweet,  what  siglis  and  sobs 
Do  nip  my  heart  with  cruel  throbs, 
And  all,  my  dear,  for  the  love  of  you 

( Trust  me  truly) ; 
But  I  hope  that  you  will  some  mercy  show 

{^In  due  tim£  duly). 

"And  then,"  she  continued,  when  they  had  finished  that 
laughing  rehearsal,  "should  the  fiddles  begin  to  squeal  and 
screech — which  is  as  much  as  to  say,  '  Now,  all  of  you,  kiss 
your  partners  !' — then  shall  you  not  bounce  forward  and  seize 
the  wench  by  the  neck,  as  if  you  were  a  ploughboy  besotted 
with  ale,  and  have  her  hate  thee  for  desti'oying  her  head-gear 
and  her  hair.  No,  you  shall  come  forward  in  this  manner, 
as  if  to  do  her  great  courtesy,  and  you  shall  take  her  hand  and 
bend  one  knee — and  make  partly  a  jest  of  it,  but  not  altogether 
a  jest — and  then  you  shall  kiss  her  hand,  and  rise  and  retire. 
Think  you  the  maiden  will  not  be  proud  that  you  have  shown 
her  so  much  honor  and  respect  in  public  ?— ay,  and  when  she 
and  you  are  thereafter  together,  by  yourselves,  I  doubt  not  but 
that  she  may  be  willing  to  make  up  to  you  for  your  forbear- 
ance and  courteous  treatment  of  lier.  Marry,  with  that  I  have 
naught  to  do;  'tis  as  the  heart  of  the  wench  may  happen  to 
be  inclined ;  though  you  may  trust  me  she  will  be  well  content 
that  you  show  her  other  than  ale-house  manners ;  and  if  'tis  but 
a  matter  of  a  kiss  that  you  forego,  because  you  would  pay  her 
courtesy  in  public,  why,  then,  as  I  say,  she  may  make  that  up 
to  thee,  or  she  is  no  woman  else.  I  wonder,  now,  what  the 
Bonnybel  will  be  like — or  tall,  or  dai'k,  or  fair — " 

"I  wish  never  to  see  her,  Judith," said  he,  simply. 

However,  there  was  to  be  no  further  discussion  of  this  mat- 
ter, nor  yet  greensward  reheai'sals  of  dancing;  for  they  now 
descried  coming  to  them  the  little  maid  who  waited  on  Judith's 
grandmother.  She  seemed  in  a  hurry,  and  had  a  basket  over 
her  arm. 

"How  now,  little  Cicely?"  Judith  said,  as  she  drew  near. 

"I  have  sought  you    everywhere,  so  please  you,  Mistress 


276  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

Judith,"  the  little  maid  said,  breathlessly,  "for  I  was  coming 
in  to  the  town — on  some  errands — and — and  I  met  the  stranger 
gentleman  that  came  once  or  twice  to  the  house— and — and  he 
would  have  me  carry  a  message  to  you — " 

"Prithee,  good  lass," said  Judith,  instantly,  and  with  much 
composure,  "go  thy  way  hack  home.     I  wish  for  no  message." 

"  He  seemed  in  sore  distress,"  the  little  maid  said,  diffidently. 

"How,  then ?  Did  a  gentleman  of  his  tall  inches  seek  help 
from  such  a  mite  as  thou  ?" 

"He  would  fain  see  you,  sweet  mistress,  and  but  for  a  mo- 
ment," the  girl  answered,  being  evidently  desirous  of  getting 
the  burden  of  the  message  off  her  mind.  "He  bid  me  say  he 
would  be  in  the  lane  going  to  Bidford,  or  thereabout,  for  the 
next  hour  or  two,  and  would  crave  a  word  with  you — out  of 
charity,  the  gentleinan  said,  or  something  of  the  like — and 
that  it  might  be  the  last  chance  of  seeing  you  ere  he  goes, 
and  that  I  was  to  give  his  message  to  you  very  secretly." 

Well,  she  scarcely  knew  what  to  do.  At  their  last  inter- 
view he  had  pleaded  for  another  opportunity  of  saying  fare- 
well to  her,  and  she  had  not  definitely  refused;  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  she  would  much  rather  have  seen  nothing  further 
of  him  in  these  present  circumstances.  His  half-reckless  I'efer- 
ences  to  Prince  Ferdinand  undergoing  any  kind  of  hardship 
for  the  sake  of  winning  the  fair  Miranda  were  of  a  dangerous 
cast.  She  did  not  wish  to  meet  him  on  that  ground  at  all,  even 
to  have  her  suspicions  removed.  But  if  he  were  really  in  dis- 
tress ?  And  this  his  last  day  in  the  neighborhood  ?  It  seemed 
a  small  matter  to  grant. 

"What  say  you,  Cousin  Willie?"  said  she,  good-naturedly. 
"  Shall  we  go  and  see  what  tlie  gentleman  would  have  of  us? 
I  can  not,  unless  with  thee  as  my  shield  and  champion." 

"If  you  wish  it.  Cousin  Judith,"  said  he:  what  would  he 
not  do  that  she  wished  ? 

"  And  Cicely— shall  we  all  go  ?" 

"Nay,  so  please  you,  Mistress  Judith,"  the  girl  said;  "I 
have  to  go  back  for  my  errands.  I  have  been  running  every- 
where to  seek  you." 

"Then,  Willie,  come  along,"  said  she,  lightly.  "We  must 
get  across  the  fields  to  the  Evesham  road." 

And  so  the  apple-cheeked  little  maiden  trudged  back  to  the 


AN  APPEAL.  277 

town  with  her  basket,  while  Juditli  and  lier  companion  went  on 
their  way  across  the  meadows.  There  was  a  kind  of  good-hu- 
mored indifference  in  her  consent,  though  she  felt  anxious 
that  the  interview  should  be  as  brief  as  possible.  She  had  had 
more  time  of  late  to  think  over  all  the  events  that  had  recent- 
ly happened — startling  events  enough  in  so  quiet  and  even  a 
life ;  and  occasionally  she  bethought  her  of  the  wizard,  and  of 
the  odd  coincidence  of  her  meeting  this  young  gentleman  at  the 
very  spot  that  had  been  named.  She  had  tried  to  laugh  aside 
certain  recurrent  doubts  and  surmises,  and  was  only  partially 
successful.  And  she  had  a  vivid  recollection  of  the  relief  she 
had  experienced  when  their  last  interview  came  to  an  end. 

"  You  must  gather  me  some  flowers,  sweetheart,"  said  she, 
"while  I  am  speaking  to  this  gentleman;  perchance  he  may 
have  something  to  say  of  his  own  private  affairs." 

"  I  will  go  on  to  your  grandmother's  garden,"  said  he,  "if 
you  wish  it,  Cousin  Judith,  and  get  you  the  flowers  there." 

"Indeed,  no,"  she  answered,  patting  him  on  the  shoulder. 
"Would  you  leave  me  without  my  champion?  Nay,  but  if  you 
stand  aside  a  little,  that  the  gentleman  may  speak  in  confi- 
dence, if  that  be  his  pleasure,  surely  tliat  will  be  enough." 

They  had  scarcely  entered  the  lane  when  he  made  his  ap- 
pearance, and  the  moment  she  set  eyes  on  him  she  saw  that 
something  had  happened.  His  face  seemed  haggard  and  anx- 
ious— nay,  his  very  manner  was  changed :  where  was  the  elab- 
orate courtesy  with  which  he  had  been  wont  to  approach  her? 

"Judith,"  said  he,  hurriedly,  "I  must  risk  all  now.  I  must 
speak  plain.     I — I  scarce  hoped  you  would  give  me  the  chance. " 

But  she  was  in  no  alarm. 

"Now,  sweetheart,"  said  she,  calmly,  to  the  little  lad,  "  you 
may  get  me  the  flowers ;  and  if  you  find  any  moi-e  of  the  bind- 
weed bells  and  the  St.  John's  wort,  so  much  the  better." 

Then  she  turned  to  Master  Leofric  Hoj)e. 

"I  trust  you  have  had  no  ill  news,"  said  she,  but  in  a  kind 
way. 

"  Indeed,  I  have.  Well,  I  know  not  which  way  to  take  it," 
he  said,  in  a  sort  of  desperate  fashion.  "It  might  be  good 
news.  But  I  am  hard  pressed ;  'twill  be  sink  or  swim  with  me 
presently.  Well,  there  is  one  way  of  safety  open  to  me:  'tis 
for  you  to  say  whether  I  shall  take  it  or  not." 


278  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

"I,  sir?"  she  said;  and  she  was  so  startled  that  she  almost 
recoiled  a  step. 

"Nay,  but  first  I  must  make  a  confession,"  said  he,  quickly, 
"whatever  comes  of  it.  Think  of  me  what  you  will,  I  will 
tell  you  the  truth.  Shall  I  beg  for  your  forgiveness  before- 
hand ?" 

He  was  regarding  her  earnestly  and  anxiously,  and  there 
was  nothing  but  kindness  and  a  dim  expression  of  concern  in 
the  honest,  fi'ank  face  and  in  the  beautiful  eyes. 

"No,  I  will  not,"  he  said.  "  Doubtless  you  will  be  angry, 
and  with  just  cause;  and  you  will  go  away.  Well,  this  is  the 
truth.  The  devils  of  usurers  were  after  me ;  I  had  some  friends 
not  far  from  here ;  I  escaped  to  them ;  and  they  sought  out  this 
hiding  for  me.  Then  I  had  heard  of  you— you  will  not  for- 
give me,  but  this  is  the  truth — I  had  heard  of  your  beauty; 
and  Satan  himself  put  it  into  my  head  that  I  must  see  you.  I 
thought  it  would  be  a  pastime,  to  while  away  this  cursed  hid- 
ing, if  I  could  get  to  know  you  withovit  discovering  myself. 
I  sent  you  a  message.  I  was  myself  the  wizard.  Heaven  is 
my  witness  that  when  I  saw  you  at  the  corner  of  the  field  up 
there,  and  heard  you  speak,  and  looked  on  your  gracious  and 
gentle  ways,  remorse  went  to  my  heart;  but  how  could  I  forego 
seeking  to  see  you  again?  It  was  a  stupid  jest.  It  was  begun 
in  thoughtlessness ;  but  now  the  truth  is  before  you  :  I  was  my- 
self the  wizard;  and — and  my  name  is  not  Leofric  Hope,  but 
John  Orridge — a  worthless  poor  devil  that  is  ashamed  to  stand 
before  you." 

Well,  the  color  had  mounted  to  her  face ;  for  she  saw  clear- 
ly the  invidious  position  that  this  confession  had  placed  lier  in; 
but  she  was  far  less  startled  than  he  had  expected.  She  had 
already  regai'ded  this  trick  as  a  possible  thing,  and  she  had 
also  fully  considered  what  she  ought  to  do  in  such  circum- 
stances. Now,  when  the  circumstances  were  actually  laid  be- 
fore her,  she  made  no  display  of  wounded  pride,  or  of  indig- 
nant anger,  or  anything  of  the  kind. 

"I  pray  you,"  said  she,  with  a  perfect  and  simple  dignity, 
"pass  from  that.  I  had  no  such  firm  belief  in  the  wizard's 
prophecies.  I  took  you  as  you  represented  yourself  to  be,  a 
stranger,  met  by  chance,  one  who  was  known  to  my  father's 
friends,  and  who  was  in  misfortune ;  and  if  I  have  done  aught 


AN  APPEAL.  279 

beyond  what  I  should  have  done  in  such  a  pass,  I  trust  you 
will  put  it  down  to  our  country  manners,  that  are  perchance 
less  guarded  than  those  of  the  town." 

For  an  instant — there  was  not  the  slightest  doubt  of  it — act- 
ual tears  stood  in  the  young  man's  eyes. 

"By  heavens,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  think  you  must  be  the  no- 
blest creature  God  ever  made  I  You  do  not  drive  me  away  in 
scorn;  you  have  no  reproaches  ?  And  I — to  be  standing  here 
— telling  you  such  a  tale — " 

"I  pray  you,  sir,  pass  from  that,"  said  she.  "What  of  your 
own  fortunes  ?     You  are  quitting  the  neighborhood  ?" 

"But  how  can  you  believe  me  in  anything,  since  you  know 
how  I  have  deceived  you  ?"  said  he,  as  if  he  could  not  under- 
stand how  she  should  make  no  sign  of  her  displeasure. 

"'Twas  but  a  jest,  as  you  say,"  she  answered,  good-natured- 
ly, but  still  with  a  trifle  of  reserve.  ' '  And  no  harm  has  come 
of  it.     I  would  leave  it  aside,  good  sir." 

"Hai'm  ?"  said  he,  regarding  her  with  a  kind  of  anxious  ti- 
midity. "That  may  or  may  not  be,  sweet  lady,  as  time  will 
show.  If  I  dared  but  speak  to  you — well,  bethink  you  of  my 
meeting  you  hei'e  from  day  to  day,  in  these  quiet  retreats,  and 
seeing  iuch  a  sweetness  and  beauty  and  womanliness  as  I  have 
never  met  in  the  world  before — such  a  wonder  of  gentleness  and 
kindness — " 

"I  would  ask  you  to  spare  me  these  compliments,"  said  she, 
simply.  "I  thought  'twas  some  serious  matter  you  had  in 
hand." 

"Serious  enough,  i'  faith!"  he  said,  in  an  altered  tone,  as  if 
she  had  recalled  him  to  a  sense  of  tlie  position  in  whicli  he 
stood.  "But  there  is  the  one  way  out  of  it,  after  all.  I  can 
sell  my  life  away  for  money  to  pacify  those  fiends ;  nay,  besides 
that,  I  should  live  in  abundance,  doubtless,  and  be  esteemed  a 
most  fortunate  gentleman,  and  one  to  be  envied.  A  gilded 
prison  house  and  slavery;  but  what  would  the  fools  tliink  of 
that  if  they  saw  me  with  a  good  fat  purse  at  the  tavern  ?" 

Again  he  regarded  her. 

"There  is  another  way  yet,  however,  if  I  must  needs  trouble 
you,  dear  Mistress  Judith,  witli  my  poor  affaii's.  What  if  I 
were  to  break  witli  tliat  accursed  London  altogether,  and  go 
off  and  fight  my  way  in  anotlier  country,  as   many  a  better 


280  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

man  hath  done?  ay,  and  there  be  still  one  or  two  left  who 
would  help  me  to  escape  if  they  saw  me  on  the  way  to  reform, 
as  they  would  call  it.  And  what  would  I  not  do  in  that  way — • 
ay,  or  in  any  way — if  I  could  hope  for  a  certain  prize  to  be  won 
at  the  end  of  it  all?" 

"And  that,  good  sir  ?" 

"That,"  said  he,  watching  her  face — "the  reward  that  would 
be  enough  and  more  than  enough  for  all  I  might  suffer  would 
be  just  this — to  find  Judith  Shakespeare  coming  to  meet  me 
in  this  very  lane." 

"Oh,  no,  sir,"  was  her  immediate  and  incoherent  exclama- 
tion ;  and  then  she  promptly  pulled  herself  together,  and  said, 
with  some  touch  of  pride :  ' '  Indeed,  good  sir,  you  talk  wildly. 
I  scarce  understand  how  you  can  be  in  such  grave  trouble." 

"Then,"  said  he,  and  he  was  rather  pale,  and  spoke  slowly, 
"it  would  be  no  manner  of  use  for  any  poor  Ferdinand  of 
these  our  own  days  to  go  bearing  logs  or  suffering  any  hard- 
ships that  might  ai'ise  ?  There  would  be  no  Miranda  waiting 
for  him,  after  all?" 

She  colored  deeply ;  she  could  not  affect  to  misunderstand  the 
repeated  allusion;  and  all  she  had  in  her  mind  now  was  to 
leave  him  and  get  away  from  him,  and  yet  without  unkind- 
ness  or  anger. 

"Good  sir,"  said  she,  with  such  equanimity  as  she  could 
muster,  "if  that  be  your  meaning — if  that  be  why  you  wished 
to  see  me  again — and  no  mere  continuance  of  an  idle  jest, 
plain  speech  will  best  serve  our  turn.  I  trust  no  graver  mat- 
ters occupy  your  mind;  as  for  this,  you  must  put  that  away. 
It  was  with  no  thought  of  any  such  thing  that  I — that  I  met 
you  once  or  twice,  and — and  lent  you  such  reading  as  might 
pass  the  time  for  you.  And  perchance  I  was  too  free  in  that, 
and  in  my  craving  to  hear  of  my  father  and  his  friends  in 
London,  and  the  rest.  But  what  you  say  now,  if  I  understand 
you  aright — well,  I  had  no  thought  of  any  such  thing.  Indeed, 
good  sir,  if  I  have  done  wrong  in  listening  to  you  about  my 
father's  friends,  'twas  in  the  hope  that  soon  or  late  you  would 
continue  the  tale  in  my  father's  house.  But  now — what  you 
say — bids  me  to  leave  you — and  yet  in  no  anger — for  in  truth  I 
wish  you  well." 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  he  held  it  for  a  moment. 


AN  APPEAL.  281 

"Is  this  your  last  woi'd,  Judith  ?"  said  he. 

"Yes,  yes,  indeed,"  she  answered,  rather  breathlessly  and 
earnestly.  "I  may  not  see  you  ag«in.  I  pray  Heaven  your 
troubles  may  soon  be  over;  and  perchance  you  may  meet  ray 
father  in  London,  and  become  one  of  his  friends;  then  might 
I  hear  of  your  better  fortunes.  'Twould  be  welcome  news,  be- 
lieve me.     And  now  fare  you  well." 

He  stooped  to  touch  her  hand  with  his  lips ;  but  he  said  not 
a  word ;  and  she  turned  away  without  raising  her  eyes.  He 
stood  there,  motionless  and  silent,  watching  her  and  the  little 
boy  as  they  walked  along  the  lane  toward  the  village — regard- 
ing them  in  an  absent  kind  of  way,  and  yet  with  no  great  ex- 
pression of  sadness  or  hopelessness  in  his  face.  Then  he  turned 
and  made  for  the  highway  to  Bidford ;  and  he  was  saying  to 
himself  as  he  went  along: 

"  Well,  there  goes  one  chance  in  life,  for  good  or  ill.  And 
what  if  I  had  been  more  persistent  ?  What  if  she  had  con- 
sented, or  even  half  consented,  or  said  that  in  the  future  I  might 
come  back  with  some  small  modicum  of  hope  ?  Nay :  the  devil 
only  knows  where  I  should  get  logs  to  carry  for  the  winning 
of  so  fair  a  reward.  Frank  Lloyd  is  right.  My  case  is  too 
desperate.  So  fare  you  well,  sweet  maiden ;  keep  you  to  your 
quiet  meadows  and  your  wooded  lanes:  and  the  clown  that 
will  marry  you  will  give  you  a  happier  life  than  ever  you  could 
have  had  with  Jack  Orridge  and  his  broken  fortunes." 

Indeed,  he  seemed  in  no  downcast  mood.  As  he  walked 
along  the  highway  he  was  absently  watching  the  people  in 
the  distant  fields,  or  idly  whistling  the  tune  of  "Calen  o  Cus- 
ture  me. "  But  by-and-by,  as  he  drew  near  the  farm,  his  face  as- 
sumed a  more  sombre  look;  and  when,  coming  still  nearer,  he 
saw  Frank  Lloyd  calmly  standing  at  the  door  of  the  stables, 
smoking  his  pipe,  there  was  a  sullen  frown  on  his  forehead  that 
did  not  promise  Avell  for  the  cheerfulness  of  that  journey  to 
London  which  Master  Lloyd  had  sworn  he  would  not  under- 
take until  his  friend  was  ready  to  accompany  him. 


282  JUDITH   SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

TO    LONDON    TOWN. 


But  that  was  not  the  departure  for  London  which  was  soon 
to  bring  Judith  a  great  heaviness  of  heart,  and  cause  many  a 
bitter  fit  of  crying  when  that  she  was  lying  awake  o'  nights. 
She  would  rather  have  let  all  her  lovers  go,  and  welcome,  a 
hundred  times  over.  But,  as  the  days  passed,  it  became  more 
and  more  evident,  from  certain  preparations,  that  her  father 
was  about  to  leave  Stratford  for  the  south,  and  finally  the  very 
moment  was  fixed.  Judith  strove  to  keep  a  merry  face  (for  so 
she  had  been  bid),  but  again  and  again  she  was  on  the  point  of 
going  to  him  and  falling  on  her  knees  and  begging  him  to  re- 
main with  them.  She  knew  that  he  would  laugh  at  her ;  but  did 
he  quite  know  what  going  away  from  them  meant  ?  And  the 
use  of  it  ?  Had  they  not  abundance  ?  Still,  she  was  afraid  of 
being  chid  for  meddling  in  matters  beyond  her;  and  so  she 
went  about  her  duties  with  as  much  cheerfulness  as  she  could 
assume ;  thougli,  when  in  secret  conclave  with  Prudence,  and 
talking  of  tliis,  and  what  the  house  would  be  like  when  he  was 
gone,  quiet  tears  would  steal  down  her  face  in  the  dusk. 

To  suit  the  convenience  of  one  or  two  neighbors,  Avho  were 
also  going  to  London,  the  day  of  departure  had  been  postponed ; 
but  at  last  the  fatal  morning  arrived.  Judith,  from  an  early 
hour,  was  on  the  watch,  trying  to  get  some  opportunity  of  say- 
ing good-by  to  her  father  by  herself  (and  not  before  all  the 
strangers  who  would  soon  be  gathering  together),  but  always 
she  was  defeated,  for  he  was  busy  in-doors  with  many  things, 
and  every  one  was  lending  a  helping  hand.  Moreover,  she 
was  in  an  excited  and  trembling  state ;  and  more  than  once  she 
had  to  steal  away  to  her  chamber  and  bathe  her  eyes  with  wa- 
ter lest  that  they  should  tell  any  tale  when  he  regarded  her. 
But  the  climax  of  her  misfortunes  was  this.  When  the  hour 
for  leaving  was  drawing  nigh  she  heard  him  go  out  and  into 
the  garden,  doubtless  with  the  intention  of  locking  up  the  cup- 
board in  the  summer-house;  and  so  she  presently  and  swiftly 


TO   LONDON  TOWN.  283 

stole  out  after  him,  thinking  that  now  would  be  her  chance. 
Alas !  the  instant  she  had  passed  through  the  back-court  door 
she  saw  that  Matthew  gardener  had  forestalled  her ;  and  not  only 
that,  but  he  had  brought  a  visitor  with  him — the  master  con- 
stable. Grandfather  Jeremy,  whom  she  knew  well.  Anger  fill- 
ed her  heart;  but  there  was  no  time  to  stand  on  her  dignity. 
She  would  not  retire  from  the  field.  She  walked  forward 
boldly,  and  stood  by  her  father's  side,  as  much  as  to  say: 
"Well,  this  is  my  place.  What  do  you  want  ?  Why  this  in- 
trusion at  such  a  time  ?" 

Grandfather  Jeremy  was  a  little,  thin,  round-shouldered 
ancient,  with  long,  straggling  gray  hair,  and  small,  shrewd, 
ferret-like  eyes  that  kept  nervously  glancing  from  Judith's  fa- 
ther to  goodman  Matthew,  who  had  obviously  introduced  him 
on  this  occasion.  Indeed,  the  saturnine  visage  of  the  garden- 
er was  overspread  with  a  complacent  grin,  as  though  he  were 
saying,  "Look  you  there,  zur,  there  be  a  rare  vool."  Judith's 
father,  on  the  other  hand,  showed  no  impatience  over  this  in- 
teri'uption;  he  kept  waiting  for  the  old  man  to  recover  his 
power  of  speech. 

"Well,  now,  master  constable,  what  would  you?"  he  said, 
gently. 

"Why  can't  'ee  tell  his  worship,  Jeremy  ?"  Matthew  garden- 
er said,  in  his  superior  and  facetious  fashion.  "Passion  o'  me, 
man,  thy  tongue  will  wag  fast  enough  at  Mother  Tooley's  ale- 
house." 

"It  wur  a  contrevarsie,  so  please  your  worship," the  ancient 
constable  said,  but  with  a  kind  of  vacant  stare,  as  if  he  were 
half  lost  in  looking  back  into  his  memory. 

"Ay,  and  with  whom?"  said  Judith's  father,  to  help  him 
along. 

"With  my  poor  old  woman,  so  please  your  worsliip.  She 
be  a  poor,  mean  creature  in  your  honoi*'s  eyes,  I  make  no 
doubt;  but  she  hath  wisdom,  she  hath,  and  a  strength  in  con- 
trevarsie past  most.  Lord,  Lord,  why  be  I  standing  here  now — 
and  holding  your  worsliip — and  your  worship's  time  and  neces- 
sities— but  that  she  saith,  'Jeremy,  put  thy  better  leg  avore;' 
'speak  out,'  saith  she;  "twur  as  good  for  thee  as  a  half-ox  in 
a  pie,  or  a  score  of  angels  in  thy  pouch. '  '  Speak  out, '  she  saith, 
' and  be  not  afraid,  Jeremy.' " 


284  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

"But,  master  constable,"  said  Judith's  father,  "if  your  good 
dame  be  such  a  Mary  Ambree  in  argument,  she  should  have  f  ui'- 
nished  you  with  fewer  words  and  more  matter.  What  would 
you  ?" 

"Nay,  zur,  I  be  as  bold  as  most, "said  the  constable,  pulling 
up  his  courage,  and  also  elevating  his  head  somewhat  with  an 
air  of  authority.  ' '  I  can  raise  hue  and  cry  in  the  hundred, 
that  can  I ;  and  if  the  watch  bring  me  a  rogue,  he  shall  lie  by 
the  heels,  or  I  am  no  true  man.  But  Lord,  zur,  have  pity  on  a 
poor  man  that  be  put  forwai'd  to  speak  for  a  disputation.  When 
they  wur  talking  of  it  at  furst,  your  worship— this  one  and  the 
other,  and  all  of  them  to  once — and  would  have  me  go  forward 
to  speak  for  them,  '  Zure,'  says  I,  '  I  would  as  lief  go  to  a  bride- 
ale  with  my  legs  swaddled  in  wisps  as  go  avore  Mahster  Shak- 
sper  without  a  power  o'  voine  words.'  But  Joan,  she  saith, 
'  Jeremy,  fear  no  man,  howsoever  great,  for  there  be  but  the 
one  Lord  over  us  all ;  perzent  thyself  like  a  true  countryman 
and  an  honest  officer;  take  thy  courage  with  thee,'  saith  she; 
'and  remember  thou  speakest  vor  thy  friends  as  well  as  vor 
thyself.  'Tis  a  right  good  worshipful  gentleman,' she  saith, 
meaning  yourself,  sweet  Mahster  Shaksj^er;  'and  will  a  not 
give  us  a  share  ?" 

"In  Heaven's  name,  man,"  said  Judith's  father,  laughing, 
' '  what  would  you  ?    Had  Joan  no  clearer  message  to  give  you  ?" 

"I  but  speak  her  words,  so  please  your  worship,"  said  the 
ancient  constable,  with  the  air  of  one  desperately  trying  to  re- 
call a  lesson  that  had  been  taught  him.  "And  all  of  them — 
they  wur  zaying  as  how  she  hath  a  power  o'  wisdom — and, 
'Jeremy,'  she  saith,  'be  not  overbold  with  the  worthy  gentle- 
man ;  'tis  but  a  share ;  and  he  be  a  right  worthy  and  civil  gen- 
tleman ;  speak  him  fair,  Jeremy,'  she  saith,  '  and  put  thy  better 
leg  avore,  and  acquit  thee  as  a  man.  Nay,  be  bold,'  she  saith, 
'and  think  of  thy  vriends,  that  be  waiting  without  for  an  an- 
swer. Think  of  them,  Jeremy,' she  saith,  'if  thy  speech  fail 
thee.  'Tis  but  a  share ;  'tis  but  a  share ;  and  he  a  right  worship- 
ful and  civil  gentleman.' " 

Judith's  father  glanced  at  the  sun-dial  on  the  gable  of  the 
barn. 

"My  good  friend,"  said  he,  "I  hear  that  your  wife  Joan  is 
ailing;  'tis  through  no  lack  of  breath,  I  warrant  me.     An  you 


I 


TO  LONDON  TOWN.  285 

come  not  to  the  point  forthwith,  I  must  be  gone.  What  would 
you  ?  Or  what  would  your  good  dame  have  of  me? — for  there 
we  shall  get  to  it  more  quickly." 

"So  please  you,  zur,"  said  Matthew,  with  his  complacent 
grin,  "the  matter  be  like  this,  now:  this  woi'thy  master  consta- 
ble and  his  comrades  of  the  watch,  they  wur  laying  their  heads 
together  like;  and  they  have  heard  say  that  you  have  written 
of  tliem,  and  taken  of  their  wisdom  the  couple  o'  nights  they 
wur  brought  in  to  supper ;  and  they  see  as  how  you  have  grown 
rich,  so  please  you,  zur,  with  such  writing — " 

"A  vast  o'  money — a  vast  o'  money  and  lands,"  the  other 
murmured. 

"And  now,  zur,  they  would  make  bold  to  ask  for  their  share, 
for  the  help  that  they  have  given  you.  Nay,  zur,"  continued 
Matthew  gardener,  who  was  pi'oud  of  the  ease  with  which  he 
could  put  into  words  the  inarticulate  desires  of  this  good  con- 
stable, ' '  be  not  angry  with  worthy  Jeremy ;  he  but  speaketh 
for  the  others,  and  for  his  wife  Joan  too,  that  be  as  full  of 
courage  as  any  of  them,  and  would  have  come  to  your  worship 
but  that  she  be  sore  troubled  with  an  ague.  Lord,  zur,  I  know 
not  how  much  the  worthy  gentlemen  want.  Perchance  good 
Jeremy  would  be  content  wi'  the  barn  and  the  store  of  malt  in 
the  malt-house — " 

At  this  the  small  deep  eyes  of  the  ancient  began  to  twinkle 
nervously;  and  he  glanced  in  an  anxious  way  from  one  to  the 
other. 

"And  the  watch,  now,"  continued  Matthew,  grinning,  and 
regarding  the  old  constable:  "why,  zur,  they  be  poor  men; 
'twould  go  well  with  them  to  divide  amongst  them  the  store  of 
good  wine  in  the  cellar,  and  perchance  also  the  leather  hang- 
ings that  be  so  much  talked  of  in  the  town.  But  hark  you, 
good  Jeremy,  remember  this,  now — that  whoever  hath  the  gar- 
den and  oi'chard  fall  to  his  lot  must  pay  me  my  wages,  else 
'tis  no  bargain." 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  Judith  saw  her  father  in  a  pas- 
sion of  anger.  His  color  did  not  change;  but  there  was  a 
strange  look  about  his  mouth,  and  his  eyes  blazed. 

" Thou  cursed  fool,"  he  said  to  the  gardener,  "'tis  thou  hast 

led  these  poor  men  into  this  folly."     And  then  he  turned  to 

the  bewildered  constable,  and  took  him  by  the  arm.      "  Come, 

12 


286  JUDITH   SHAKESPEARE, 

good  friend,"  said  he,  in  a  kindly  way,  "come  into  the  house 
and  I  will  explain  these  matters  to  thee.  Thou  hast  been  mis- 
led by  that  impudent  knave — by  my  life,  I  will  settle  that  score 
with  him  ere  long;  and  in  truth  the  aid  that  you  and  your  com- 
rades have  given  me  is  chiefly  that  we  have  passed  a  pleasant 
evening  or  two  together,  and  been  merry  or  wise  as  occasion 
offered.  And  I  would  have  you  spend  such  another  to-night 
among  yourselves,  leaving  the  charges  at  the  ale-house  to  me; 
and  for  the  present,  if  I  may  not  divide  my  store  of  wine  among 
you,  'tis  no  reason  why  you  and  I  should  not  have  a  parting 
cup  ere  I  put  hand  to  bridle — " 

That  was  all  that  Judith  heard ;  and  then  she  turned  to  the 
ancient  wise  man  and  said,  coolly, 

"Were  I  in  thy  place,  good  Matthew,  I  would  get  me  out  of 
this  garden,  and  out  of  Stratford  town  too,  ere  my  father  come 
back."     And  Matthew  was  too  fi'ightened  to  answer  her. 

The  outcome  of  all  this,  however,  was  that  Judith's  father 
did  not  return  to  the  garden ;  and  when  she  went  into  the  house 
she  found  that  he  had  taken  such  time  to  explain  to  Jeremy 
constable  how  small  a  share  in  his  writings  had  been  contrib- 
uted by  these  good  people  that  certain  of  the  members  of  the 
expedition  bound  for  London  had  already  arrived.  Indeed, 
their  horses  and  attendants  were  at  the  door;  and  all  and 
everything  was  in  such  a  state  of  confusion  and  uproar  that 
Judith  saw  clearly  she  had  no  chance  of  saying  a  quiet  good-by 
to  her  father  all  by  herself.  But  was  she  to  be  again  balked 
by  good-man  Matthew  ?  She  thought  not.  She  slipped  away 
by  the  back  door  and  disappeared. 

There  was  quite  a  little  crowd  gathered  to  see  the  cavalcade 
move  off.  Dr.  Hall  was  not  there,  but  Tom  Quiney  was — 
bringing  with  him  as  a  parting  gift  for  Judith's  father  a  hand- 
some riding-whip;  and  the  worthy  Parson  Blaise  had  also  ap- 
peared, though  there  was  no  opportunity  for  his  professional 
services  amid  so  much  bustle.  And  then  tliei-e  wei*e  hand-shak- 
ings and  kissings  and  fai^ewells;  and  Judith's  father  was  just 
about  to  put  his  foot  in  the  stirrup,  when  Susanna  called  out: 

' '  But  where  is  Judith  ?  Is  she  not  coming  to  say  good-by  to 
my  father  ?" 

Then  there  were  calls  for  Judith,  here,  there,  and  every- 
where, but  no  answer ;  and  her  mother  was  angry  that  the  girl 


TO  LONDON  TOWN.  287 

should  detain  all  this  assemblage.  But  her  father,  not  having 
mounted,  went  rapidly  through  the  house,  and  just  opened  the 
door  leading  into  the  garden.  The  briefest  glance  showed  him 
that  the  mastiff  was  gone.     Then  he  hurried  back. 

"  'Tis  all  well,  good  mother,"  said  he,  as  he  got  into  the  sad- 
dle. "I  shall  see  the  wench  ere  I  go  far.  I  know  her 
tricks." 

So  the  company  moved  away  from  the  house,  and  through 
the  streets,  and  down  to  Clopton's  bridge.  Once  over  the 
bridge,  they  struck  to  the  right,  taking  the  Oxford  road  by 
Shipston  and  Enstone ;  and  ere  they  had  gone  far  along  the 
highway,  Judith's  father,  who  seemed  less  to  join  in  the  gener- 
al hilarity  and  high  spirits  of  tlie  setting  out  than  to  be  keep- 
ing a  watch  around,  perceived  something  in  the  distance— at  a 
corner  where  there  was  a  high  bank  behind  some  trees — that 
caused  him  to  laugh  slightly,  and  to  himself.  When  they 
were  come  near  tiiis  corner  the  figure  that  had  been  on  the 
sky-line  liad  disappeared ;  but  down  by  the  road-side  was  Ju- 
dith hei'self,  looking  very  tremulous  and  ashamed  as  all  these 
people  came  along,  and  the  great  Don  standing  by  her.  Her 
father,  who  had  some  knowledge  of  her  ways,  bade  them  all 
ride  on,  and  then  he  turned  his  horse,  and  sprang  down  from 
the  saddle. 

"Well,  wench,"  said  he,  and  he  took  her  by  the  shoulders, 
"  what  brings  you  here  ?" 

In  answer  she  could  only  burst  into  tears,  and  hide  her  face 
in  his  breast. 

"  Why,  lass,"  said  he,  "  what  is  a  journey  to  London  ?  And 
have  you  not  enough  left  to  comfort  you  ?  Have  you  not 
sweethearts  a  plenty  ?" 

But  she  could  not  speak ;  she  only  sobbed  and  sobbed. 

"Come,  come,  lass,  I  must  be  going,"  said  he,  stroking  the 
soft  brown  hair.  "  Cheer  up.  Wouldst  thou  spoil  the  pret- 
tiest eyes  in  Warwickshire  ?  Nay,  an  thou  have  not  a  right 
merry  and  beaming  face  when  I  am  come  again,  I  will  call 
thee  no  daughter  of  mine." 

Then  she  raised  her  head— for  still  she  could  not  speak— and 
he  kissed  her. 

"  Heaven's  blessings  on  thee,  good  wonch  !  I  think  'tis  the 
last  time  I  shall  ever  have  the  courage  to  leave  thee.    Fare  you 


288  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

well,  sweetheart;  keep  your  eyes  bright  and  your  face  happy — 
to  draw  me  home  again." 

Then  she  kissed  him  on  each  cheek,  and  he  got  into  the  sad- 
dle and  rode  on.  She  climbed  up  to  the  top  of  the  bank,  and 
watched  him  and  his  companions  while  they  were  still  in  sight, 
and  then  she  turned  to  go  slowly  homeward. 

And  it  seemed  to  her,  when  she  came  in  view  of  Stratford, 
and  looked  down  on  the  wide  meadows  and  the  placid  river  and 
the  silent  homesteads,  that  a  sort  of  winter  had  already  fall- 
en over  the  land.  That  long  summer  had  been  very  beauti- 
ful to  her — full  of  sunlight  and  color  and  the  scent  of  flowers ; 
but  now  a  kind  of  winter  was  come,  and  a  sadness  and  lone- 
liness; and  the  days  and  days  that  would  follow  each  other 
seemed  to  have  no  longer  any  life  in  them. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

EVIL  TIDINGS. 


But  a  far  sharper  winter  than  any  she  had  thought  of  was 
now  about  to  come  upon  her,  and  this  was  how  it  befell : 

After  the  departure  of  lier  father,  good  Master  Walter  Blaise 
became  more  and  more  the  guide  and  counsellor  of  these  wo- 
men-folk ;  and  indeed  New  Place  was  now  given  over  to  meet- 
ings for  prayer  and  worship,  and  was  also  become  the  head- 
quarters in  the  town  for  the  entertainment  of  travelling  preach- 
ers, and  for  the  institution  of  all  kinds  of  pious  and  charitable 
undertakings.  There  was  little  else  for  the  occupants  of  it  to 
do :  the  head  of  the  house  was  in  London ;  Judith  was  at  Shot- 
tery  with  her  grandmother ;  Susanna  was  relieved  from  much 
of  her  own  domestic  cares  by  the  absence  of  her  husband  in 
Worcestershire;  and  the  bailiff  looked  after  all  matters  per- 
taining to  the  farm.  Indeed,  so  constant  were  these  informal 
services  and  ministerings  to  pious  travellers  that  Julius  Shawe 
(though  not  himself  much  given  in  that  direction,  and  perhaps 
mostly  to  please  his  sister)  felt  bound  to  interfere  and  offer  to 
open  his  house  on  occasion,  or  pay  j)art  of  the  charges  incurred 
through  this  kindly  hospitality.  Nay,  he  went  privately  to 
Master  Blaise  and  threw  out  some  vague  hints  as  to.  the  doubt- 


EVIL  TIDINGS.  289 

ful  propriety  of  allowing  a  wife,  in  the  absence  of  her  husband, 
to  be  so  ready  with  her  charity.  Now  Master  Blaise  was  an 
honest  and  straightforward  man,  and  he  met  this  charge  boldly 
and  openly.  He  begged  of  Master  Shawe  to  come  to  New 
Place  that  very  afternoon,  when  two  or  three  of  the  neighbors 
were  to  assemble  to  hear  him  lecture ;  and  both  Prudence  and 
her  brother  went.  But  before  the  lecture,  the  parson  observed 
that  he  had  had  a  case  of  conscience  put  before  him — as  to  the 
giving  of  alms  and  charity,  by  whom,  for  whom,  and  on  whose 
authority — which  he  would  not  himself  decide.  The  whole 
matter,  he  obseiwed,  had  been  pronounced  upon  in  the  holiday 
lectures  of  that  famous  divine  Master  William  Perkins,  who  was 
now  gone  to  his  eternal  reward;  these  lectures  having  recently 
been  giv^en  to  the  world  by  the  aid  of  one  Thomas  Pickering,  of 
Emmanuel  College,  Cambridge.  And  very  soon  it  appeared, 
as  the  young  parson  read  from  the  little  parchment-covered 
book,  that  tlie  passages  he  quoted  had  been  carefully  chosen 
and  were  singularly  pertinent.  For  after  a  discourse  on  the 
duty  of  almsgiving,  as  enjoined  by  Scripture  (and  it  was  point- 
ed out  that  Christ  himself  had  lived  on  alms — "  not  by  begging, 
as  the  Papists  affirm,  but  by  tlie  voluntary  ministration  and 
contribution  of  some  to  whom  he  preached").  Master  Blaise  read 
on,  w^ith  an  occasional  glance  at  Julius  Shawe:  "  'It  may  be 
asked  whether  the  wife  may  give  alms  without  the  consent  of 
her  husband,  considering  that  she  is  in  subjection  to  another, 
and  tlierefore  all  tliat  she  hath  is  another's,  and  not  her  own. 
Answer.  The  wife  may  give  alms  of  some  things,  but  with 
these  cautions:  as,  first,  she  may  give  of  those  goods  tliat  slie 
hath  excepted  from  marriage.  Secondly,  she  may  give  of 
tho.se  things  which  are  common  to  them  both,  provided  it  be 
witli  the  husband's  consent,  at  least  general  and  implicit. 
Thirdly,  .slie  may  not  give  without  or  against  the  con.sent  of  her 
husband.  And  the  reason  is,  because  both  the  law  of  nature 
and  the  word  of  God  command  her  obedience  to  her  husband  in 
all  things.  If  it  be  alleged  that  Joanna,  the  wife  of  Chuza, 
Herod's  steward,  with  others,  did  minister  to  Christ  of  their 
goods  (Luke,  viii.  3),  I  answer:  It  is  to  be  presumed  that  it  was 
not  done  without  all  consent.  Again,  if  it  be  said  that  Abigail 
brought  a  present  to  David  for  the  relief  of  him  and  his  young 
men,  whereof  she  made  not  Nabal,  her  husband,  acquainted 


390  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

(1  Sam. ,  XXV.  19),  I  answer,  it  is  true,  but  mark  the  reason.  Nabal 
was  generally  of  a  churlish  and  unmei'ciful  disposition,  where- 
upon he  was  altogether  unwilling  to  yield  i-elief  to  any,  in  how 
great  necessity  soever;  whence  it  was  that  he  railed  on  the 
young  men  that  came  to  him,  and  drove  them  away,  ver.  14. 
Again,  he  was  a  foolish  man,  and  given  to  drunkenness,  so  as 
he  was  not  fit  to  govern  his  house  or  to  dispense  his  alms.  Be- 
sides, that  Abigail  was  a  woman  of  great  wisdom  in  all  her  ac- 
tions, and  that  which  she  now  did  was  to  save  Nabal's  and  her 
own  life — yea,  the  lives  of  his  whole  family;  for  the  case  was 
desperate,  and  all  that  they  had  were  in  present  hazard.  The 
example,  therefore,  is  no  warrant  for  any  woman  to  give  alms, 
unless  it  be  in  the  like  case.'  "  And  then  he  summed  up  in  a 
few  words,  saying,  in  effect,  that  as  regards  the  question  which 
had  been  put  before  him,  it  was  for  the  wife 'to  say  whether 
she  had  her  husband's  genei'al  and  implied  consent  to  her  pious 
expenditure,  and  to  rule  her  accordingly. 

This  completely  and  forever  shut  Julius  Shawe's  mouth. 
For  he  knew,  and  they  all  knew,  that  Judith's  father  was  well 
content  that  any  preachers  or  divines  coming  to  the  house 
should  be  generously  received;  while  he  on  his  part  claimed 
a  like  privilege  in  the  entertainment  of  any  vagrant  person  or 
persons  (especially  if  they  were  making  a  shift  to  live  by  their 
wits)  whom  he  might  chance  to  meet.  Strict  economy  in 
all  other  things  was  the  rule  of  the  household ;  in  the  matter 
of  hospitality  the  limits  were  wide.  And  if  Judith's  mother 
half  guessed,  and  if  Susanna  Hall  shrewdly  jjerceived,  why 
this  topic  had  been  introduced,  and  why  Julius  Shawe  had 
been  asked  to  attend  the  lecture,  the  subject  was  one  that 
brought  no  sting  to  their  conscience.  If  the  whole  question 
rested  on  the  genei*al  and  implied  consent  of  the  husband,  Ju- 
dith's mother  had  naught  to  tax  herself  with. 

After  that  there  was  no  further  remonstrance  (of  however 
gentle  and  underhand  a  kind)  on  the  part  of  Julius  Shawe ;  and 
more  and  more  did  Parson  Blaise  become  the  guide,  instructor, 
and  mainstay  of  the  household.  They  were  women-folk,  some 
of  them  timid,  all  of  them  pious,  and  they  experienced  a  sense 
of  comfort  and  safety  in  submitting  to  his  spiritual  domination. 
As  for  his  disinterestedness,  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  that; 
for  now  Judith  was  away  at  Shottery,  and  he  could  no  longer 


EVIL  TIDINGS.  291 

pay  court  to  her  in  that  authoritative  fashion  of  his.  It  seemed 
as  if  he  were  quite  content  to  be  with  these  others,  bringing 
them  the  news  of  the  day,  especially  as  regarded  the  religious 
dissensions  that  were  everywhere  abroad,  arranging  for  the 
welcoming  of  this  or  that  faithful  teacher  on  his  way  through 
the  country,  getting  up  meetings  for  prayer  and  profitable  dis- 
course in  the  afternoon,  or  sitting  quietly  with  them  in  the 
evening  while  they  went  on  with  their  tasks  of  dressmaking 
or  embroidery. 

And  so  it  came  about  that  Master  Walter  was  in  the  house 
one  morning — they  were  seated  at  dinner,  indeed,  and  Pru- 
dence was  also  of  the  company — when  a  letter  was  brought 
in  and  handed  to  Judith's  mother.  It  was  an  unusual  thing; 
and  all  saw  by  the  look  of  it  that  it  was  from  London;  and 
all  were  eager  for  the  news,  the  good  parson  as  well  as  any. 
There  was  not  a  word  said  as  Judith's  mother,  with  fingers  that 
trembled  a  little  from  mere  anticipation,  opened  the  large  sheet, 
and  began  to  read  to  herself  across  the  closely  written  lines. 
And  then,  as  they  waited,  anxious  for  the  last  bit  of  tidings 
about  the  King  or  the  Parliament  or  v/hat  not,  they  could  not 
fail  to  observe  a  look  of  alarm  come  into  the  reader's  face. 

"  Oh,  Susan,"  she  said,  in  a  way  that  startled  them,  "  what 
is  this?" 

She  read  on,  breathless  and  stunned,  her  face  grown  quite 
pale  now ;  and  at  last  she  stretched  out  her  shaking  hand  with 
the  letter  in  it. 

"Susan,  Susan,  take  it..  I  can  not  understand  it.  I  can 
not  read  more.     Ob,  Susan,  what  has  the  girl  done?" 

And  she  turned  aside  her  chair,  and  began  to  cry  stealthily: 
she  was  not  a  strong- nerved  woman,  and  she  had  gathered  but 
a  vague  impression  that  something  terrible  and  irrevocable  had 
occurred. 

Susan  was  alarmed,  no  doubt;  but  she  had  plenty  of  self- 
command.  She  took  the  letter,  and  proceeded  as  swiftly  as  she 
could  to  get  at  the  contents  of  it.  Then  she  looked  up  in  a 
frightened  way  at  the  parson,  as  if  to  judge  in  her  own  mind 
as  to  how  far  he  should  be  trusted  in  this  matter.  And  then 
she  turned  to  the  letter  again— in  a  kind  of  despair. 

' '  Mother, "  said  she  at  last,  ' '  I  understand  no  more  than  your- 
self what  should  be  done.     To  think  that  all  this  should  have 


292  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

been  going-  on,  and  we  knowing  naught  of  it!  But  you  see 
what  my  father  wants ;  that  is  the  first  thing.  Who  is  to  go  to 
Judith?" 

At  the  mere  mention  of  Judith's  name  a  flash  of  dismay 
went  to  Prudence's  heart.  She  knew  that  something  must 
have  happened  ;  she  at  once  bethought  her  of  Judith's  inter- 
views with  the  person  in  hiding ;  and  she  was  conscious  of  her 
own  guilty  connivance  and  secrecy ;  so  that  the  blood  rushed 
to  her  face,  and  she  sat  there  dreading  to  know  what  was  coming. 

"Mother, "Susan  said  again,  and  rather  breathlessly,  " do 
you  not  think,  in  such  a  pass,  we  might  beg  Master  Blaise  to 
give  us  of  his  advice?  The  Doctor  being  from  home,  who  else 
is  there?" 

"  Nay,  if  I  can  be  of  any  service  to  you  or  yours,  good  Mis- 
tress Hall,  I  pray  you  have  no  scruple  in  commanding  me," 
said  the  parson — with  his  clear  and  keen  gray  eyes  calmly  wait- 
ing for  information. 

Judith's  mother  was  understood  to  give  her  consent ;  and  then 
Susan  (after  a  moment's  painful  hesitation)  took  up  the  letter. 

"Indeed,  good  sir,"  said  she,  with  an  embarrassment  that 
she  rarely  showed,  "you  will  see  there  is  reason  for  our  per- 
plexity, and — and  I  pray  you  be  not  too  prompt  to  think  ill 
of  my  sister.  Perchance  there  may  be  explanations,  or  the 
story  wrongly  reported.  In  good  truth,  sir,  my  father  writes 
in  no  such  passion  of  anger  as  another  might  in  such  a  pass, 
though  'tis  but  natural  he  should  be  sorely  troubled  and  vexed." 

Again  she  hesitated,  being  somewhat  unnerved  and  bewil- 
dered by  what  she  had  just  been  reading.  She  was  ti'ying  to 
recall  things,  to  measure  possibilities,  to  overcome  her  amaze- 
ment, all  at  once.  And  then  she  knew  that  the  parson  was 
coolly  regarding  her,  and  she  strove  to  collect  her  wits. 

"This,  good  sir,  is  the  manner  of  it,"  said  she,  in  as  calm  a 
way  as  she  could  assume,  "that  my  father  and  his  associates 
have  but  i-ecently  made  a  discovery  that  concerns  them  much, 
and  is  even  a  disaster  to  them ;  'tis  no  less  than  that  a  copy 
of  my  father's  last-written  play — the  very  one,  indeed,  that  he 
finished  ere  leaving  Stratford — hath  lately  been  sold,  they 
scarce  know  by  whom  as  yet,  to  a  certain  bookseller  in  Lon- 
don, and  that  the  bookseller  is  either  about  to  print  it  and  sell 
it,  or  threatens  to  do  so.     They  all  of  them,  my  father  says, 


EVIL  TIDINGS.  t»  393 

are  grievously  annoyed  by  this,  for  that  the  publishing  of  the 
play  will  satisfy  many  who  will  read  it  at  home  instead  of 
coming  to  the  theatre,  and  that  thus  the  interests  of  himself  and 
his  associates  will  suffer  gravely.  I  am  sorry,  good  sir,  to  trou- 
ble you  with  such  matters,"  she  added,  with  a  glance  of  apology, 
"but  they  come  more  near  home  to  us  than  you  might  think." 

"  I  have  offered  to  you  my  service  in  all  things — that  befit 
my  office,"  said  Master  Walter,  but  with  a  certain  reserve,  as 
if  he  did  not  quite  like  the  course  that  matters  were  taking. 

"And  then,"  continued  Susan,  glancing  at  the  writing  be- 
fore her,  "my  father  says  that  they  were  much  perplexed  (hav- 
ing no  right  at  law  to  stop  such  a  publication),  and  made  in- 
quiries as  to  how  any  such  copy  could  have  found  its  way  into 
the  bookseller's  hands;  whereupon  he  discovered  that  which 
hath  grieved  him  far  more  than  the  trouble  about  the  play. 
Prudence,  you  are  her  nearest  gossip;  it  can  not  be  true!"  she 
exclaimed ;  and  she  turned  to  the  young  maiden,  whose  face  was 
no  longer  pale  and  thoughtful,  but  rose-colored  with  shame 
and  alarm.  "For  he  says  'tis  a  story  that  is  now  every- 
where abroad  in  London — and  a  laugh  and  a  jest  at  the  tav- 
erns— how  that  one  Jack  Orridge  came  down  to  Warwickshire, 
and  made  believe  to  be  a  wizard,  and  cozened  Judith — Judith, 
Prudence,  our  Judith! — heard  ye  ever  the  like? — into  a  secret 
love  afPair ;  and  that  she  gave  him  a  copy  of  the  play  as  one  of 
her  favors — " 

"Truly,  now,  that  is  false  on  the  face  of  it,"  said  Master 
Blaise,  appositely.  ' '  That  is  a  tale  told  by  some  one  who 
knows  not  that  Judith  hath  no  skill  of  writing." 

"  Oh,  'tis  too  bewildei'ing!"  Susan  said,  as  she  turned  again 
to  the  letter  in  a  kind  of  despair.  "  But  to  have  such  a  story 
going  about  London — about  Judith — about  my  sister  Judith — 
how  can  you  wonder  that  my  father  should  write  in  haste  and 
in  anger  ?  That  she  should  meet  this  young  man  day  after 
day  at  a  farm-house  near  to  Bidford,  and  in  secret,  and  listen 
to  his  stories  of  the  court,  believing  him  to  be  a  worthy  gen- 
tleman in  misfortune!  A  worthy  gentleman  truly! — to  come 
and  make  sport  of  a  poor  country  maiden,  and  teach  her  to  de- 
ceive her  father  and  all  of  us,  not  one  of  us  knowing— not 


one—" 


"Susan !  Susan  !"  Prudence  cried,  in  an  agony  of  grief,  "'tis 

12* 


394  •  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

not  as  you  tliink.  'Tis  not  as  it  is  written  there.  I  will  con- 
fess the  truth.  I  myself  knew  of  the  young  man  being  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  how  he  came  to  be  acquainted  with  Judith. 
And  she  never  was  at  any  farm-house  to  meet  him,  that  I  know 
well,  but — but.  he  was  alone,  and  in  trouble,  he  said,  and  she 
was  sorry  for  him,  and  durst  not  speak  to  any  one  but  me. 
Nay,  if  there  be  aught  wroug,  'twas  none  of  her  doing,  that  I 
know:  as  to  the  copy  of  the  play,  I  am  ignorant;  but  'twas 
none  of  her  doing.  Susan,  you  think  too  harshly  —  indeed 
you  do." 

"Sweetheart,  I  think  not  harshly," said  the  other,  in  a  be- 
wildered way.      "  I  but  tell  the  story  as  I  find  it." 

'"Tis  not  true,  tlieu.  On  her  part,  at  least,  there  was  no 
whit  of  any  secret  love  att'air,  as  I  know  right  well,"  said  Pru- 
dence, with  a  vehemence  near  to  tears. 

"I  but  tell  thee  the  story  as  my  father  heard  it.  Poor 
wench,  whatev^er  wrong  she  may  have  done,  I  have  no  word 
against  her,"  Judith's  sister  said. 

"I  pray  you  continue,"  interposed  Master  Blaise,  with  his 
eyes  calmly  fixed  on  the  letter;  he  had  scarcely  uttered  a  word. 

"Oh,  my  father  goes  on  to  say  that  this  Orridge — -this  person 
representing  himself  as  familiar  with  the  court,  and  the  great 
nobles,  and  the  like — is  none  other  than  the  illegitimate  son  of 
an  Oxfordshire  gentleman  who  became  over  well  acquaint 
with  the  daughter  of  an  innkeeper  in  Oxford  town ;  that  the 
father  meant  to  bring  up  the  lad,  and  did  give  him  some  smat- 
tering of  education,  but  died;  that  ever  since  he  hath  been  de- 
pendent on  his  grandmother,  a  widow,  who  still  keeps  the  inn; 
and  that  he  hath  lived  his  life  in  London  in  any  sort  of  com- 
pany he  could  impose  upon  by  reason  of  his  fine  manners. 
These  particulars,  my  father  says,  he  hath  had  from  Ben  Jon- 
son,  that  seems  to  know  something  of  the  young  man,  and 
maintains  that  he  is  not  so  much  vicious  or  ill-disposed  as  reck- 
less and  idle,  and  that  he  is  as  likely  as  not  to  end  his  days 
with  a  noose  round  his  neck.  This,  saith  my  father,  is  all 
that  he  can  learn,  and  he  would  have  us  question  Judith  as 
to  the  truth  of  the  story,  and  as  to  how  the  copy  of  the  play 
was  made,  and  whether  'twas  this  same  Orridge  that  carried 
it  to  London.  And  all  this  he  would  have  inquired  into  at 
once,  for  his  associates  and  himself  are  in  great  straits  because 


EVIL  TIDINGS.  295 

of  this  matter,  and  have  urgent  need  to  know  as  much  as  can 
be  known.  Then  there  is  this  further  writing  toward  the  end 
— '  I  can  not  explain  all  to  thee  at  this  time ;  but  'tis  so  that 
we  have  no  remedy  against  the  rascal  i^ublisher.  Even  if  they 
do  not  register  at  the  Stationers'  Company,  they  but  offend  the 
Company;  and  the  only  punishment  that  might  at  the  best 
befall  them  would  be  his  Grace  of  Canterbury  so  far  misliking 
the  play  as  to  cause  it  to  be  burned— a  punishment  that  would 
fall  heavier  on  us,  I  take  it,  than  on  them ;  and  that  is  in  no 
case  to  be  anticipated.' " 

"I  can  not  understand  these  matters,  good  sir,"  Judith's 
mother  said,  drying  her  eyes.  " 'Tis  my  poor  wench  that  I 
think  of.  I  know  she  meant  no  hai'm— whatever  comes  of  it. 
And  she  is  so  gentle  and  so  proud-spirited  that  a  word  of  re- 
buke from  her  father  will  drive  her  out  of  her  reason.  That 
she  should  have  fallen  into  such  trouble,  poor  wench!  poor 
wench !— and  you.  Prudence,  that  was  ever  her  intimate,  and 
seeing  her  in  such  a  coil — that  you  should  not  have  told  us  of  it !" 

Prudence  sat  silent  under  this  reproach:  she  knew  not  how 
to  defend  herself.  Perhaps  she  did  not  care,  for  all  her 
thoughts  were  about  Judith. 

"Saw  you  ever  the  young  man  ?"  Susan  said,  scarcely  con- 
cealing her  curiosity. 

"Nay,  not  I,"  was  Prudence's  answer.  "But  your  grand- 
mother liath  seen  him,  and  that  sev^ex'al  times." 

"My  grandmother!"  she  exclaimed. 

"For  he  used  to  call  at  the  cottage, "  said  Prudence,  "and 
pass  an  hour  or  two— being  in  hiding,  as  he  said,  and  glad  to 
have  a  little  company.  And  he  greatly  pleased  the  old  dame, 
as  I  have  heard,  because  of  his  gracious  courtesy  and  good- 
breeding;  and  when  they  believed  him  to  be  in  sad  trouble, 
and  pitied  him,  who  would  be  the  first  to  speak  and  denounce 
a  stranger  so  helpless  ?  Nay,  I  know  that  I  have  erred.  Had 
I  liad  more  courage  I  should  have  come  to  you,  Susan,  and 
begged  you  to  draw  Judith  away  from  any  further  communi- 
cation with  the  young  man ;  but  I— I  know  not  how  it  came 
about;  she  hath  such  a  winning  and  overpersuading  way,  and 
is  herself  so  fearless." 

"  A  handsome  youth,  perchance  ?"  said  Susan,  who  seemed 
to  wish  to  know  more  about  this  escapade  of  her  sister's. 


296  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

"Right  handsome,  as  I  have  heard;  and  of  great  courtesy 
and  gentle  manners, "  Prudence  answered.  ' '  But  well  I  know 
what  it  was  that  led  Judith  to  hold  communication  with  him 
after  she  would  fain  have  had  that  broken  o£P."  And  then 
Prudence,  with  such  detail  as  was  witliiu  her  knowledge,  ex- 
plained how  Judith  had  come  to  think  that  the  young  stranger 
talked  overmuch  of  Ben  Jon  son,  and  was  anxious  to  show  that 
her  father  could  write  as  well  as  he  (or  better,  as  she  consider- 
ed). And  then  came  the  story  of  the  lending  of  the  sheets  of 
the  play,  and  Prudence  had  to  confess  how  that  she  had  been 
Judith's  accomplice  on  many  a  former  occasion  in  purloining 
and  studying  the  treasures  laid  by  in  the  summer-house.  She 
told  all  that  she  knew  openly  and  simply  and  frankly;  and  if 
she  was  in  distress,  it  was  with  no  tliought  of  herself;  it  was  in 
thinking  of  her  dear  friend  and  companion  away  over  there 
at  Shottery,  who  was  all  in  ignorance  of  what  was  about  to  be- 
fall her. 

Then  the  three  women,  being  somewhat  recovered  from  their 
first  dismay,  but  still  helpless  and  bewildered,  and  not  knowing 
what  to  do,  turned  to  the  parson.  He  had  sat  calm  and  col- 
lected, silent  for  the  most  part,  and  reading  in  between  the  lines 
of  the  story  his  own  interpretation.  Perhaps,  also,  he  had 
been  considering  other  possibilities — as  to  the  chances  that  such 
an  occasion  offered  for  gathering  back  to  the  fold  an  erraiit 
lamb. 

"What  your  father  wants  done,  that  is  the  first  thing,  sweet- 
heart," Judith's  mother  said,  in  a  tremulous  and  dazed  kind 
of  fashion.  "  As  to  the  poor  wench,  we  will  see  about  her  aft- 
erward. And  not  a  harsh  word  will  I  send  her ;  she  will  have 
punishment  enough  to  bear — poor  lass!  poor  lass!  So  heed- 
less and  so  headstrong  she  hath  been  always,  but  always  the 
quickest  to  suffer  if  a  word  were  spoken  to  her;  and  now  if 
this  story  be  put  about,  how  will  she  hold  up  her  head — she 
that  was  so  proud?  But  what  your  father  wants  done,  Susan, 
that  is  the  first  thing— that  is  the  first  thing.  See  what  you 
can  do  to  answer  the  letter  as  he  wishes:  you  are  quicker  to 
understand  such  things  than  I." 

And  then  the  parson  spoke,  in  his  clear,  incisive,  and  author- 
itative way : 

' '  Good  madam,  'tis  little  I  know  of  these  matters  in  London ; 


EVIL  TIDINGS.  297 

but  if  you  would  have  Judith  questioned — and  that  might  be 
somewhat  painful  to  any  one  of  her  relatives— I  will  go  and 
see  her  for  you,  if  you  think  fit.  If  she  have  been  the  victim 
of  knavish  designs,  'twill  be  easy  for  her  to  acquit  herself; 
carelessness,  perchance,  may  be  the  only  charge  to  be  brought 
against  her.  And  as  I  gather  from  Prudence  that  the  sheets 
of  manuscript  lent  to  the  young  man  were  in  his  possession  for 
a  certain  time,  I  make  no  doubt  that  the  copy — if  it  came  from 
this  neighborhood  at  all — was  made  by  himself  on  those  occa- 
sions, and  that  she  had  no  hand  in  the  mischief,  save  in  over- 
trusting  a  sti'anger.  Doubtless  your  husband,  good  madam, 
is  desix'ous  of  having  clear  and  accurate  statements  on  these  and 
other  points ;  whereas,  if  you,  or  Mistress  Hall,  or  even  Pru- 
dence there,  were  to  go  and  see  Judith,  natural  affection  and 
sympathy  might  blunt  the  edge  of  your  inquiries.  You  would 
be  so  anxious  to  excuse  (and  who  would  not,  in  your  place?) 
that  the  very  information  asked  for  by  your  husband  would  be 
lost  sight  of.  Therefore  I  am  willing  to  do  as  you  think  fit- 
ting. I  may  not  say  that  my  office  lends  any  special  sanction 
to  such  a  duty,  for  this  is  but  a  worldly  matter;  but  fj-iendship 
hath  its  obligations;  and  if  I  can  be  of  service  to  you,  good 
Mistress  Sliakespeare,  'tis  far  from  repaying  what  I  owe  of 
godly  society  and  companionship  to  you  and  youi's.  These 
be  rather  affairs  for  men  to  deal  with  than  for  women,  who 
know  less  of  the  ways  of  the  world ;  and  I  take  it  that  Judith, 
when  she  is  made  aware  of  her  father's  wishes,  will  have  no 
hesitation  in  meeting  me  with  frankness  and  sincerity." 

It  was  this  faculty  of  his  of  speaking  clearly  and  well  and 
to  the  point  that  in  a  large  measure  gave  him  such  an  ascend- 
ency over  those  women;  he  seemed  always  to  see  a  straight 
path  before  him;  to  have  confidence  in  himself,  and  a  courage 
to  lead  the  way. 

"Good  sir,  if  you  would  have  so  much  kindness,"  Judith's 
mother  said.  "Truly,  you  offer  iis  help  and  guidance  in  a 
dire  necessity.  And  if  you  will  tell  her  what  it  is  her  father 
wishes  to  know,  be  sure  that  will  be  enough;  the  wench  will 
answer  you,  have  no  fear,  good  sir." 

Then  Susan  said,  when  he  was  about  to  go: 

"Wortby  sir,  you  need  not  say  to  her  all  that  you  have 
heard  concerning  the  young  man.     I  would  liefer  know  whal 


298  JUDITH   SHAKESPEARE. 

she  herself  thought  of  him;  and  how  they  came  together-,  and 
how  he  grew  to  be  on  such  friendly  terms  with  her.  For  hith- 
erto she  hath  been  so  sparing  of  her  favor ;  though  many  have 
wished  her  to  change  her  name  for  tlieirs ;  but  always  the  wench 
hatli  kept  roving  eyes.  Handsome  was  he,  Prudence  ?  And  of 
gentle  manners,  said  you  ?  Nay,  I  warrant  me  'twas  something 
far  from  the  common  that  led  Judith  such  a  dance." 

But  Prudence,  when  he  was  leaving,  stole  out  after  him ;  and 
when  he  was  at  the  door,  she  put  her  hand  on  his  arm.  He 
turned,  and  saw  that  the  tears  were  running  down  her  face. 

"Be  kind  to  Judith, "she  said — not  heeding  that  he  saw  her 
tears,  and  still  clinging  to  his  arm;  "be  kind  to  Judith,  from 
my  heart  I  beg  it  of  you — I  pray  you  be  Icind  and  gentle  with 
her,  good  Master  Blaise;  for  indeed  she  is  like  an  own  sister 
to  me." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

RENEWALS. 


As  yet  she  was  all  iniconscious  ;  and  indeed  the  dullness 
following  her  father's  departure  Avas  for  her  considerably  iiglit- 
ened  by  this  visit  to  her  grandmother's  cottage,  where  she 
found  a  hundred  duties  f^nd  occupations  awaiting  her.  She 
Avas  an  expert  needle-woman,  and  there  were  many  arrears  in 
that  direction  to  be  made  up :  she  managed  the  cooking,  and  in- 
troduced one  or  two  cunning  dishes,  to  the  wonder  of  the  little 
Cicely;  she  even  tried  her  hand  at  carpentering,  where  a  shelf, 
or  the  frame  of  a  casement,  had  got  loose;  and  as  a  reward  she 
was  occasionally  invited  to  assist  her  grandmother  in  the  gar- 
den. The  old  dame  herself  grew  wonderfully  amiable  and 
cheerful  in  the  constant  association  with  this  bright  young 
life;  and  she  had  a  great  store  of  ballads  with  which  to  beguile 
the  tedium  of  sewing — though,  in  truth,  tliese  were  for  the  most 
part  of  a  monotonous  and  mournful  character,  generally  recit- 
ing the  woes  of  some  poor  maiden  in  Oxfordsliire  or  Lincoln- 
shire who  had  been  deceived  by  a  false  lover,  and  yet  was  will- 
ing to  forgive  him  even  as  she  lay  on  her  death-bed.  As  for 
Judith,  she  took  to  this  quiet  life  quite  naturally  and  happily; 
and  if  she  chanced  to  have  time  for  a  stroll  along  the  wooded 


RENEWALS.  299 

lanes  oi*  through  the  meadows,  she  was  now  right  glad  that 
there  was  no  longer  any  fear  of  her  being  confronted  by  Mas- 
ter Leofric  Hope — or  Jack  Orridge,  as  he  had  called  himself. 
Of  course  she  thought  of  him  often,  and  of  his  coui^teous  man- 
ners, and  his  eloquent  and  yet  modest  eyes,  and  she  hoped  all 
was  going  well  with  him,  and  that  she  might  perchance  hear  of 
him  through  her  father.  Nor  could  she  forget  (for  she  was  but 
human)  that  the  young  man,  when  disguised  as  a  wizard,  had 
said  that  he  had  heard  her  named  as  the  fairest  maid  in  War- 
wickshire ;  and  subsequently,  in  his  natural  character,  that  he 
had  heard  Ben  Jonson  speak  well  of  her  looks,  and  she  hoped 
that  if  ever  he  recalled  these  brief  interviews,  he  would  consid- 
er that  she  liad  maintained  a  sufficiency  of  maidenly  dignity, 
and  had  not  betrayed  the  ignorance  or  awkwai'dness  of  a  farm- 
bred  wench.  Nay,  there  were  certain  words  of  his  that  she  put 
some  store  by— as  coming  from  a  stranger.  For  the  rest,  she 
was  in  no  case  likely  to  undervalue  her  appearance:  her  father 
had  praised  her  hair,  and  that  was  enough. 

One  morning  she  had  gone  down  to  the  little  front  gate, 
for  some  mischievous  boys  had  lifted  it  off  its  hinges,  and  she 
wanted  to  get  it  back  again  on  the  rusty  iron  spikes.  But  it 
had  got  jammed  somehow,  and  would  not  move  ;  and  in  her 
pulling,  some  splinter  of  the  wood  ran  into  her  hand,  causing 
not  a  little  pain.  Just  at  this  moment — whether  he  had  come 
round  that  way  on  the  chance  of  catching  a  glimpse  of  her  it  is 
hard  to  say — Tom  Quiney  came  by ;  but  on  the  other  side  of  the 
road,  and  clearly  with  no  intention  of  calling  at  the  cottage. 

"  Good-morrow,  Judith,"  said  he,  in  a  kind  of  uncertain  way, 
and  would  have  gone  on. 

Well,  she  was  vexed  and  impatient  with  her  fruitless  efforts, 
and  her  hand  smarted  not  a  little;  so  she  looked  at  him  and 
said,  half  angrily, 

"  I  wish  you  would  come  and  lift  this  gate." 

It  was  but  a  trifling  task  for  the  tall  and  straight-limbed 
young  fellow  who  now  strode  across  the  highway.  He  jerked 
it  up  in  a  second,  and  then  set  it  down  again  on  the  iron  spikes, 
where  it  swung  in  its  wonted  way. 

"But  your  hand  is  bleeding,  Judith!''  he  exclaimed. 

" 'Tis  nothing,"  she  said.  "  It  was  a  splinter.  I  have  pull- 
ed it  out." 


300  JUDITH   SHAKESPEARE, 

But  he  snatclied  her  hand  peremptorily,  before  she  could 
draw  it  away,  and  held  it  firmly  and  examined  it. 

"Why,  there's  a  bit  still  there;  I  can  see  it." 

"  I  can  get  it  out  for  myself,"  said  she. 

"No,  you  can  not,"  he  answered.  "  'Tis  far  easier  for  some 
one  else.     Stay  here  a  second,  and  I  will  fetch  out  a  needle." 

He  went  into  the  cottage,  and  presently  re-appeared,  not  only 
with  a  needle,  but  also  with  a  tin  vessel  holding  water,  and  a 
bit  of  linen  and  a  piece  of  thread.  Then  he  took  Judith's  soft 
hand  as  gently  as  he  could  in  his  muscular  fingers,  and  began 
to  probe  for  the  small  fragment  of  wood  just  visible  there.  He 
seemed  a  long  time  about  it:  perhaps  he  was  afraid  of  giving 
her  pain. 

"  Do  I  hurt  you,  Judith  ?"  he  said. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  with  some  color  of  embarrassment  in 
her  face.     ' '  Be  quick. " 

"But  I  must  be  cautious,"  said  he.  "I  would  it  were  my 
own  hand;  I  would  make  short  work  of  it." 

' '  Let  me  try  myself, "  said  she,  attempting  to  get  away  her 
hand  from  his  grasp. 

But  he  would  not  allow  that;  and  in  due  time  he  managed 
to  get  the  splinter  out.  Then  he  dipped  his  fingers  in  the  water 
and  bathed  the  small  wound  in  that  way ;  and  then  he  must 
needs  wrap  the  piece  of  linen  round  her  hand— very  carefully, 
so  that  there  should  be  no  crease— and  thereafter  fasten  the 
bandage  with  the  bit  of  thread.  He  did  not  look  like  one  who 
could  perform  a  surgical  operation  with  exceeding  delicacy; 
but  he  was  as  gentle  as  he  could  be,  and  she  thanked  him— in 
an  unwilling  kind  of  way. 

Then  all  at  once  her  face  brightened. 

"Why,"  said  she,  "I  hear  that  you  gave  my  father  a  riding- 
whip  on  his  going." 

"Did  you  not  see  it,  Judith  ?"  he  said,  with  some  disappoint- 
ment. "I  meant  you  to  have  seen  it.  The  handle  was  of 
ivory,  and  of  a  rare  carving." 

' '  I  was  not  at  the  door  when  they  went  away— I  met  my  fa- 
ther as  they  passed  along  the  road,"  said  she.  "But  I  shall 
see  it,  doubtless,  when  he  comes  home  again.  And  what  said  he  ? 
Was  he  pleased  ?    He  thanked  you  right  heartily,  did  he  not  ?" 

"Yes,  truly;  but 'twas  a  trifling'  matter." 


RENEWALS.  *  301 

"My  father  thinks  more  of  the  intention  than  of  the  value 
of  such  a  gift,"  said  she— "  as  I  would." 

It  was  an  innocent  and  careless  speech,  but  it  seemed  to  sud- 
denly inspire  him  with  a  kind  of  wild  wish. 

"Ah,"  said  he,  regarding  her,  "  if  you,  Judith,  now,  would 
but  take  some  little  gift  from  me — no  matter  what — that  would 
be  a  day  I  should  remember  all  my  life." 

"Will  you  not  come  into  the  house?"  said  she,  quickly. 
"  My  grandam  will  be  right  glad  to  see  you." 

She  would  have  led  the  way  ;  but  he  hesitated. 

"Nay,  I  will  not  trouble  your  gi*andmother,  Judith,"  said 
he.  "I  doubt  not  but  that  she  hath  had  enough  of  visitors 
since  you  came  to  stay  with  her." 

"  Since  I  came?"  she  said,  good-naturedly — for  she  refused  to 
accept  the  innuendo.  ' '  Why,  let  me  consider,  now.  The  day 
before  yesterday  my  mother  walked  over  to  see  how  we  did ; 
and  before  that— I  think  the  day  before  that— Mistress  Wyse 
came  in  to  tell  us  that  they  had  taken  a  witch  at  Abbots  Mor- 
ton ;  and  then  yesterday  Farmer  Bowstead  called  to  ask  if  his 
strayed  horse  had  been  seen  anywhere  about  these  lanes. 
There,  now,  three  visitors  since  I  have  come  to  the  cottage :  'tis 
not  a  multitude." 

"There  hath  been  none  other?"  said  he,  looking  at  her  with 
some  surprise. 

"  Not  another  foot  hath  crossed  the  threshold  to  my  know- 
ledge," said  she,  simply,  and  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  small  con- 
cern. 

But  this  intelligence  seemed  to  produce  a  very  sudden  and 
marked  altei-ation  in  his  manner.  Not  only  would  he  accom- 
pany her  into  the  house,  but  he  immediately  became  most  so- 
licitous about  her  hand. 

"I  pray  you  be  careful,  Judith,"  said  he,  almost  as  if  he 
would  again  take  hold  of  her  wrist. 

"  'Tis  but  a  scratch,"  she  said. 

' '  Nay,  now,  if  tliere  be  but  a  touch  of  rust,  it  might  woi^k 
mischief,"  said  he,  anxiously.  "  I  pray  you  be  careful;  and  I 
would  bathe  it  frequently,  and  keep  on  the  bandage  until  you 
are  sure  that  all  is  well.  Nay,  I  tell  you  this,  Judith:  there 
are  more  than  you  think  of  that  would  liefer  lose  a  finger  than 
that  you  should  have  the  smallest  hurt." 


302  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

And  in-doors,  moreover,  he  was  most  amiable  and  gentle 
and  anxious  to  please,  and  bore  some  rather  sharp  sayings  of 
the  old  dame  with  great  good-nature;  and  whatever  Judith 
said,  or  suggested,  or  approved  of,  that  was  right,  once  and  for 
all.  She  wished  to  hear  more  of  the  riding-whip  also.  Where 
was  the  handle  carved?  Had  her  father  expressed  any  desire 
for  such  ornamentation? 

"Truly  'twas  but  a  small  return  for  his  kindness  to  us  the 
other  day,"  said  the  young  man,  who  was  half  bewildered  with 
delight  at  finding  Judith's  eyes  once  more  regarding  him  in  the 
old  frank  and  friendly  fashion,  and  was  desperately  anxious 
that  they  should  continue  so  to  regard  him  (with  no  chilling 
shadow  of  tlie  parson  intervening).  "For  Cornelius  Greene 
being  minded  to  make  one  or  two  more  catches," he  continued 
— and  still  addressing  those  eyes  that  were  at  once  so  gentle 
and  so  clear  and  so  kind — "  he  would  have  me  go  to  your  father 
and  beg  him  to  give  us  words  for  these,  out  of  any  books  he 
might  know  of.  Not  that  we  thought  of  asking  him  to  write 
the  words  himself — far  from  that— but  to  choose  them  for  us: 
and  right  willingly  he  did  so.  In  truth,  I  have  them  with 
me,"  he  added,  searching  for  and  producing  a  paper  with  some 
written  lines  on  it.      "Shall  I  read  them  to  you,  Judith ?" 

He  did  not  notice  the  slight  touch  of  indifference  with  which 
she  assented ;  for  when  once  she  had  heard  that  these  composi- 
tions (whatever  they  might  be)  were  not  her  father's  writing, 
she  was  not  anxious  to  become  acquainted  with  them.  But  his 
concern,  on  the  other  hand,  was  to  keep  her  interested  and 
amused  and  friendly;  and  Cornelius  Greene  and  his  doings 
were  at  least  something  to  talk  about. 

"The  first  one  we  think  of  calling  'Fortune's  Wheel,' " 
said  he;  "and  thus  it  goes: 

'  Tiiutt  not  too  much^  if  prosperous  limes  do  smile, 
Nor  yet  despair  of  7-isinr/,  if  thou  fall  : 
The  Fatal  Lady  minglcth  one  with  tli'  other, 
And  lets  not  fortune  stay,  but  round  turn^  all.'' 

And  the  other  one — I  know  not  how  to  call  it  yet — but  Cornelius 
takes  it  to  be  the  better  of  the  two  for  his  purpose;  thus  it  is: 

'  Merrily  sang  the  Ely  monks 

Wlien  rowed  thereby   Canxde  the  King. 
"  Bow  near,  my  Knights^  roiv  near  the  land, 
That  loe  may  hear  the  good  7nonks  sing," ' 


RENEWALS.  303 

See  you  now  how  well  it  will  go,  Judith— Merrily  sang— mer- 
rily sang — the  Ely  monks— the  Ely  monhs — ichen  rowed  there- 
by— Canute  the  King  I"  said  lie,  in  a  manner  suggesting  the 
ail*.  "'Twill  go  excellent  well  for  four  voices,  and  Coi'nelius 
is  already  begun.  In  truth,  'twill  be  something  new  at  our 
merry-meetings — " 

"  Ay,  and  what  have  you  to  say  of  your  business,  good  Mas- 
ter Quiney?"  the  old  dame  interrupted,  sliarply.  "Be  you  so 
busy  with  your  tavern  catches  and  your  merry-makings  that 
you  have  no  thought  of  that  ?" 

"Indeed,  I  have  enough  regard  for  that,  good  Mistress 
Hathaway,"  said  he,  in  perfect  good-humor;  "and  it  goes  foi-- 
ward  safely  enough.  But  methinks  yovi  remind  me  that  I 
have  tarried  here  as  long  as  I  ought ;  so  now  I  will  get  me  back 
to  the  town." 

He  half  expected  that  Judith  would  go  to  the  door  with  him ; 
and  when  she  had  gone  so  far,  he  said, 

"Will  you  not  come  a  brief  way  across  the  meadows,  Ju- 
dith?— 'tis  not  well  you  should  always  be  shut  up  in  the  cot- 
tage—you that  are  so  fond  of  out-of-doors." 

He  had  no  cause  for  believing  that  she  was  too  much  within- 
doors; but  she  did  not  stay  to  raise  the  question;  she  good, 
naturedly  went  down  the  little  garden  path  with  him,  and 
across  the  road,  and  so  into  the  fields.  She  liad  been  busy  all 
the  morning;  twenty  minutes'  idleness  would  do  no  harm. 

Then,  when  they  wei-e  quite  by  themselves,  he  said,  seriously : 

"I  pray  you  take  heed,  Judith,  that  you  let  not  the  blood 
flow  too  much  to  your  hand,  lest  it  inflame  the  wound,  how- 
ever slight  you  may  deem  it.  See,  now,  if  you  would  but  hold 
it  so,  'twould  rest  on  mine,  and  be  a  relief  to  you." 

He  did  not  ask  her  to  take  his  arm,  but  merely  that  she 
should  i*est  her  hand  on  his;  and  this  seemed  easy  to  do,  and 
natural  (so  long  as  he  was  not  tired).  But  also  it  seemed  very 
much  like  the  time  when  they  used  to  go  through  those  very 
meadows  as  boy  and  girl  together,  the  tips  of  their  fingers  in- 
tertwined :  and  so  she  spoke  in  a  gentle  and  friendly  kind  of 
fashion  to  him. 

"And  how  is  it  with  your  business,  in  good  sooth?"  she  ask- 
ed. "I  hope  there  be  no  more  of  these  junketings,  and  dan- 
cings, and  brawls." 


304 


JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 


"  Dear  Judith,"  said  he,  "I  know  not  who  carries  such  tales 
of  me  to  you.  If  you  knew  but  the  ti-uth,  I  am  never  in  a 
brawl  of  mine  own  making-  or  seeking ;  but  one  must  hold 
one's  own,  and  the  more  that  is  done,  the  less  are  any  likely 
to  interfere.  Nay,"  he  continued,  with  a  modest  laugh,  "I 
think  I  am  safe  for  quiet  now  with  any  in  Warwickshire ;  'tis 
only  a  strange  lad  now  and  again  that  may  come  among  us 
and  seek  cause  of  quarrel ;  and  surely  'tis  better  to  have  it  over 
and  done  with,  and  either  he  or  we  to  know  our  place  ?  I 
seek  no  fighting  for  the  love  of  it;  my  life  on  that;  but  you 
would  not  have  any  stranger  come  into  Stratford  a-swaggering, 
and  biting  his  thumb  at  us,  and  calling  us  rogues  of  fiddlers?" 

"Mercy  on  us,  then,"  she  cried,  "are  you  champion  for  the 
town— or  perchance  for  all  of  Warwickshire  ?  A  goodly  life 
to  look  forward  to!  And  what  give  they  their  watch-dog? 
Truly  they  must  reward  him  that  keeps  such  guard,  and  will 
do  battle  for  them  all?" 

"Nay,  I  am  none  such,  Judith,"  said  he:  "I  but  take  my 
chance  like  the  others." 

He  shifted  her  hand  on  his  that  it  might  rest  the  more  secui'e- 
ly,  and  his  touch  was  gentle. 

And  your  merchandise— pray  you  who  is  so  kind  as  to  look 
after  that  when  you  are  engaged  in  those  pastimes?"  she  asked. 

"I  have  no  fault  to  find  with  my  merchandise,  Judith," 
said  he.  "That  I  look  after  myself.  I  would  I  had  more  in- 
ducement to  attend  to  it,  and  to  provide  for  the  future.  But  it 
goes  well;  indeed  it  does." 

"And  Daniel  Hutt?" 

"  He  has  left  the  country  now." 

"And  his  vagabond  crew :  have  they  all  made  their  fortunes?" 

"  Why,  Judith,  they  can  not  have  reached  America  yet," 
said  he. 

"I  am  glad  that  you  have  not  gone,"  she  remarked,  simply. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "why  should  I  strive  to  push  my  fortunes 
there  more  than  here  ?  To  what  end  ?  There  be  none  that  I 
could  serve  either  way." 

And  then  it  seemed  to  him  that  this  was  an  ungracious  ' 
speech,  and  he  wds  anxious  to  stand  well  with  her,  seeing  that 
she  was  disposed  to  be  friendly. 

"Judith,"  he  said,  suddenly,  "surely  you  will  not  remain 


RENEWALS.  305 

over  at  Sliottery  to-morrow,  with  all  tlie  merriment  of  the 
fair  going  on  in  the  town?  Nay,  but  you  must  come  over— I 
could  fetclx  you,  at  any  hour  that  you  named,  if  it  so  i3leased 
you.  Thei'e  is  a  famous  juggler  come  into  the  town,  as  I  hear, 
that  can  do  the  most  rare  and  wonderful  tricks,  and  hath  a 
dog  as  cunning  as  himself ;  and  you  will  hear  the  new  ballads, 
to  judge  which  you  would  have;  and  the  peddlei-s  would  show 
you  their  stores.  Now,  in  good  sooth,  Judith,  may  not  I  come 
for  you  ? — why,  all  the  others  have  some  one  to  go  about  with 
them;  and  she  will  choose  this  or  that  posy  or  ribbon,  and 
wear  it  for  the  jest  of  the  day  ;  but  I  have  no  one  to  walk 
through  the  crowd  with  me,  and  see  the  people,  and  hear  the 
bargainings  and  the  music.  I  pray  you,  Judith,  let  me  come 
for  you.  It  can  not  be  well  for  you  always  to  live  in  such 
dullness  as  is  over  there  at  Sliottery." 

"If  I  wei-e  to  go  to  the  fair  with  you,"  said  she,  and  not 
unkindly,  "methinks  the  people  would  stare,  would  they  not? 
We  have  not  been  such  intimate  friends  of  late." 

"You  asked  me  not  to  go  to  America,  Judith,"  said  he. 

' '  Well,  yes, "  she  admitted.  ' '  Truly  I  did  so.  Why  should 
you  go  away  with  those  desperate  and  broken  men  ?  Surely 
'tis  better  you  should  stay  among  your  own  people." 

"I  staid  because  you  bade  me,  Judith,"  said  he. 

She  flushed  somewhat  at  this;  but  he  was  so  eager  not  to  em- 
barrass or  offend  her  that  he  instantly  changed  the  subject. 

"May  I,  then,  Judith  ?  If  you  would  come  but  for  an  hour !" 
he  pleaded ;  for  he  clearly  wanted  to  show  to  everybody  that 
Juditli  was  under  his  escort  at  the  fair;  and  which  of  all  the 
maidens  (heaskedhimself)  would  compare  beside  her?  "  Wliy, 
there  is  not  one  of  them  but  hath  his  companion,  to  buy  for  her 
some  brooch,  or  pretty  coif,  or  the  like — " 

"Are  they  all  so  anxious  to  lighten  their  purses?"  said 
she,  laughing.  "Nay,  but  truly  I  may  not  leave  my  grand- 
mother, lest  the  good  dame  should  think  that  I  was  wearying 
of  my  stay  with  her.  Pray  you  get  some  other  to  go  to  the  fair 
with  you — you  have  many  friends,  as  I  know,  in  the  town — " 

"Oh,  do  you  think  'tis  the  fair  I  care  about?"  said  he, 
quickly.  "Nay,  now,  Judith,  I  would  as  lief  not  go  to  the 
fair  at  all — or  but  for  a  few  minutes— if  you  will  let  me  bring 
you  over  some  trinket  in  the  afternoon.      Nay,  a  hundred 


306  •         JUDITH   SHAKESPEARE. 

times  would  I  rather  not  go,  if  you  would  grant  me  such  a  fa- 
v^or.      'Tis  the  first  I  have  asked  of  you  for  many  a  day." 

' '  Why, "  she  said,  with  a  smile,  ' '  you  must  all  of  you  be  pros- 
pering in  Stratford,  since  you  are  all  so  eager  to  cast  abi'oad 
your  money.  The  peddlers  will  do  a  rare  trade  to-morrow,  as 
I  reckon." 

This  was  almost  a  tacit  permission,  and  he  was  no  such  fool 
as  to  press  her  for  more.  Already  his  mind  ran  riot — he  saw 
himself  ransacking  all  the  packs  and  stalls  in  the  town. 

"And  now,"  she  said,  as  she  had  come  within  sight  of  the 
houses — "  I  will  return  now,  or  the  good  dame  will  wonder." 

"  But  I  will  walk  back  with  you,  Judith,"  said  he,  promptly. 

She  regarded  him,  with  those  pretty  eyes  of  hers  clearly 
laughing. 

"  Methought  you  came  away  from  the  cottage,"  said  she, 
"because  of  the  claims  of  your  business;  and  now  you  would 
walk  all  the  way  back  again  ?" 

"Your  hand,  Judith,"  .said  he,  shame-facedly— "you  must 
not  let  it  hang  down  by  your  side." 

"Nay,  for  such  a  dangerous  wound,"  said  she,  with  her  eyes 
gravely  regarding  him,  "  I  will  take  precautions ;  but  can  not  I 
hold  it  up  myself — so — if  need  were  ?" 

He  was  so  well  satisfied  with  what  he  had  gained  that  he 
would  yield  to  her  now  as  she  wished.  And  yet  he  took  her 
hand  once  moi*e — gently  and  timidly — and  as  if  unwilling  to 
give  up  his  charge  of  it. 

"  I  hope  it  will  not  pain  you,  Judith,"  he  said. 

"  I  trust  it  may  not  lead  me  to  death's  door,"  she  answered, 
seriously;  and  if  her  eyes  were  laughing,  it  was  with  no  un- 
kindness. 

And  then  they  said  good-by  to  each  other,  and  she  walked 
away  back  to  Shottery,  well  content  to  have  made  friends  with 
him  again,  and  to  have  found  him  for  the  time  being  quit  of 
his  dark  susjiicions  and  jealousies  of  her;  while  as  for  him,  he 
went  on  to  the  town  in  a  sort  of  foreknowledge  that  all  Strat- 
ford Fair  would  not  have  anything  worthy  to  be  offered  to  Ju- 
dith, and  wondering  whether  he  could  not  elsewhere,  and  at 
once,  and  by  any  desperate  effort,  procure  something  fine  and 
rare  and  beautiful  enough  to  be  placed  in  that  poor  Avounded 
hand. 


THE  ROSE  IS  FROM  MY  GARDEN  GONE."  307 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 
"the  rose  is  from  my  garden  gone." 

Now  when  Parson  Blaise  set  forth  upon  the  mission  that  had 
been  intrusted  to  liim,  there  w^s  not  a  trace  of  anger  or  indig- 
nation in  his  mind.  He  was  not  even  moved  by  jealous  wrath 
against  the  person  with  whom  Judith  had  been  holding. these 
clandestine  communications;  nor  had  he  any  sense  of  having 
been  himself  injured  by  her  conduct.  For  one  thing,  he  knew 
enough  of  Judith's  pride  and  self-reliance  to  be  fairly  well  sat- 
isfied that  she  was  not  likely  to  have  compromised  herself  in 
any  serious  way ;  and  for  another,  his  own  choice  of  her,  from 
among  the  Stratford  maidens,  as  the  one  he  wished  to  secure 
for  helpmate,  was  the  result  not  so  much  of  any  overmastering 
passion  as  of  a  cool  and  discriminating  judgment.  Nay,  this 
very  complication  that  had  arisen — might  he  not  use  it  to  his 
own  advantage?  Might  it  not  prove  an  argument  more  pow- 
erful than  any  he  had  hitherto  tried?  And  so  it  was  that  he 
set  out,  not  as  one  armed  to  punish,  but  with  the  most  placable 
intentions ;  and  the  better  to  give  the  subject  full  consideration, 
he  did  not  go  straight  across  the  meadows  to  the  cottage,  but 
went  through  the  town,  and  away  out  the  Alcester  road,  before 
turning  round  and  making  for  Shottery. 

Nor  did  it  occur  to  him  that  he  was  approaching  this  matter 
with  any  mean  or  selfish  ends  in  view.  Far  from  that.  The 
man  was  quite  honest.  In  winning  Judith  over  to  be  his  wife, 
by  any  means  whatever,  was  he  not  adding  one  more  to  the 
number  of  the  Lord's  people?  Was  he  not  saving  her  from 
her  own  undisciplined  and  wayward  impulses,  and  from  all 
the  mischief  that  might  arise  from  these?  What  was  for  his 
good  was  for  her  good,  and  the  good  of  the  Church  also.  She 
had  a  winning  way;  she  was  friends  with  many  who  rather 
kept  aloof  from  the  more  austere  of  their  neighbors;  she  would 
be  a  useful  go-between.  Her  cheerfulness,  her  good  temper, 
nay,  her  comely  presence  and  bright  ways — all  these  Avould  be 
profitably  employed.     Nor  did  he  forget  the  probability  of  a 


308  JUDITH   SHAKESPEARE. 

handsome  marriage  portion,  and  the  added  domestic  comfort 
and  serenity  that  that  woukl  bring  himself.  Even  the  mar- 
riage portion  (wliich  he  had  no  doubt  woukl  be  a  substantial 
one)  might  be  regarded  as  coming  into  the  Church  in  a  way; 
and  so  all  would  work  together  for  good. 

When  he  reached  the  cottage  he  found  the  old  dame  in  the 
garden,  busy  with  her  flowers  and  vegetables,  and  was  told  that 
Judith  had  just  gone  within-doors.  Indeed,  she  had  but  that 
minute  come  back  from  her  stroll  across  the  fields  with  Quiney, 
and  had  gone  in  to  fetch  a  jug  so  that  she  might  have  some  fresh 
water  from  the  well  in  the  garden.    He  met  her  on  the  threshold. 

"  I  would  say  a  few  words  with  you,  Judith,  and  in  private," 
said  he. 

She  seemed  surprised,  but  was  in  no  ill-humor;  so  she  said, 
"As  you  will,  good  sir,"  and  led  the  way  into  the  main  apart- 
ment, where  she  remained  standing. 

"  I  pray  you  be  seated,"  said  he. 

She  was  still  more  surprised ;  but  she  obeyed  him,  taking  her 
seat  under  the  window,  so  that  her  face  was  in  shadow,  while  the 
light  from  the  small  panes  fell  full  on  him,  sitting  opposite  her. 

"Judith,"  said  he,  "I  am  come  upon  a  serious  errand,  and 
yet  would  not  alarm  you  unnecessarily.  Nay,  I  think  that 
when  all  is  done,  good  may  spring  out  of  the  present  troubles—" 

"What  is  it?"  she  said,  quickly.  "Is  any  one  ill?— my 
mother — " 

"No,  Judith,"  he  said.  " 'Tis  no  trial  of  that  kind  you  are 
called  to  face.  The  Lord  hath  been  merciful  to  you  and  yours 
these  several  years;  while  others  have  borne  the  heavy  hand  of 
affliction,  and  lost  their  dearest  at  untimeous  seasons,  you  have 
been  spared  for  many  years  now  all  but  such  trials  as  come  in 
the  natural  course  :  would  I  could  see  you  as  thankful  as  you 
ought  to  be  to  the  Giver  of  all  good.  And  yet  I  know  not  but 
that  grief  over  such  afflictions  is  easier  to  bear  than  grief  over 
the  consequences  of  our  own  wrong-doing:  memory  preserves 
this  last  the  longer;  sorrow  is  not  so  enduring,  nor  cuts  so 
deep,  as  remorse.  And  then  to  think  that  others  have  been 
made  to  suffer  through  our  evil-doing— that  is  an  added  sting: 
when  those  who  have  expected  naught  but  filial  obedience  and 
duty,  and  the  confidence  that  should  exist  between  children 
and  their  parents — " 


"the  rose  is  from  my  garden  gone."  309 

But  this  phrase  about  filial  obedience  had  struck  her  with  a 
sudden  fear. 

' '  I  pray  you  what  is  it,  sir?  What  have  I  done  ?"  she  said,  al- 
most in  a  cry. 

Then  he  saw  that  he  had  gone  too  fast  and  too  far. 

"Nay,  Judith,"  he  said,  "be  not  over-alarmed.  'Tis  per- 
chance but  carelessness  and  a  disposition  to  trust  yourself  in  all 
circumstances  to  your  own  guidance  that  have  to  be  laid  to 
your  charge.  I  hope  it  may  be  so ;  I  hope  matters  may  be  no 
worse;  'tis  for  yourself  to  say.  I  come  from  your  mother  and 
sister,  Judith,''  he  continued,  in  measured  tones.  "  I  may  tell 
you  at  once  that  they  have  learned  of  your  having  been  in 
secret  communication  with  a  stranger  who  has  been  in  these 
parts,  and  they  would  know  the  truth.  I  will  not  seek  to 
judge  you  beforehand,  nor  point  out  to  you  what  perils  and 
mischances  must  ever  befall  you  so  long  as  you  are  bent  on 
going  your  own  way,  without  government  or  counsel ;  that  you 
must  now  perceive  for  yourself,  and  I  trust  the  lesson  will 
not  be  brought  home  to  you  too  grievously." 

"Is  that  all?"  Judith  had  said,  quickly,  to  herself,  and  with 
much  relief. 

"Good  sir,"  she  said  to  him,  coolly,  "I  hope  my  good  mo- 
tlier  and  Susan  are  in  no  bewilderment  of  terror.  'Tis  true, 
indeed,  that  there  was  one  in  this  neighborhood  whom  I  met 
and  spoke  with  on  several  occasions.  If  there  was  secrecy, 
'twas  because  the  poor  young  gentleman  was  in  hiding;  he 
dared  not  even  present  the  letter  that  he  brought  coiiimendiug 
him  to  my  father.  Nay,  good  Master  Blaise,  I  pray  you  com- 
fort my  mother  and  sister,  and  assure  them  there  was  no 
harm  thought  of  by  the  poor  young  man." 

"  I  know  not  that,  Judith,"  said  he,  with  his  clear,  observant 
eyes  trying  to  read  her  face  in  the  dusk.  "But  your  mo- 
ther and  sister  would  fain  know  what  manner  of  man  he  was, 
and  what  you  know  of  him,  and  how  he  came  to  be  here." 

Then  the  fancy  flashed  across  her  mind  that  this  interven- 
tion of  his  was  but  the  prompting  of  his  own  jealousy,  and 
that  he  was  acting  as  the  spokesman  of  her  mother  and  sister 
chiefly  to  get  information  for  himself. 

"  Why,  sir,"  said  she,  lightly,  "I  think  you  might  as  well  ask 
these  questions  of  my  grandmother,  that  knoweth  about  as  I  do 

13 


310  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

concerning  the  young  man,  and  was  as  sorry  as  I  for  his  ill 
fortunes." 

"I  pray  you  take  not  this  matter  so  heedlesslj^,  Judith," 
he  said,  with  some  coldness.  " 'Tis  of  greater  moment  than 
you  think.  No  idle  curiosity  has  brought  me  hither  to-day ; 
nay,  it  is  with  the  authority  of  your  family  that  I  put  these 
questions  to  you;  and  I  am  chai'ged  to  ask  you  to  answer 
them  with  all  of  such  knowledge  as  you  may  have." 

' '  Well,  well, "  said  she,  good-naturedly ;  ' '  his  name — " 

^le  was  about  to  say  that  his  name  was  Leofric  Hope;  but 
she  checked  herself,  and  some  color  rose  to  her  face— though 
he  could  not  see  that. 

"His  name,  good  sir,  as  I  believe,  is  John  Orridge,"  she 
continued,  but  with  no  embarrassment ;  indeed,  she  did  not 
think  that  she  had  anything  very  serious  either  to  conceal  or 
to  confess;  "and  I  fear  me  the  young  man  is  grievously  in 
debt,  or  otherwise  foi-ced  to  keep  away  from  those  that  would 
impi'ison  him ;  and  being  come  to  Warwickshire,  he  brought 
a  letter  to  my  father,  but  was  afraid  to  present  it.  He  hath  been 
to  the  cottage  here  certain  times,  for  my  grandmother,  as  well 
as  I,  was  pleased  to  hear  of  the  doings  in  London ;  and  right 
civil  he  was,  and  well-mannered;  and  'twas  news  to  us  to  hear 
about  the  theatres  and  my  father's  way  of  living  there.  But 
why  should  my  mother  and  Susan  seek  to  know  aught  of 
him? — surely  Prudence  hath  not  betrayed  the  trust  I  put  in  her  ? 
— for  indeed  the  young  man  was  anxious  that  his  being  in  the 
neighborhood  should  not  be  known  to  any  in  Stratford.  How- 
ever, as  he  is  now  gone  away,  and  that  some  weeks  ago,  'tis  of 
little  moment,  as  I  reckon ;  and  if  ever  he  cometh  back  here,  I 
doubt  not  but  that  he  will  present  himself  at  New  Place,  that 
they  may  judge  of  him  as  they  please.  That  he  can  speak  for 
himself,  and  to  advantage  and  goodly  showing,  I  know  right 
well." 

"  And  that  is  all  you  can  say  of  this  man,  Judith,"  said  he, 
with  some  severity  in  his  tone — "of  this  man  that  you  have 
been  thus  familiar  with  ?" 

' '  Marry  is  it !"  she  said,  lightly.  ' '  But  I  have  had  guesses, 
no  doubt ;  for  first  I  thought  him  a  gentleman  of  the  court,  he 
being  apparently  acquainted  with  all  the  doings  there ;  and  then 
methought  he  was  nearer  to  the  theatres,  from  his  knowledge 


"the  rose  is  from  my  garden  gone."  311 

of  the  players.  But  you  would  not  have  had  me  ask  the  young 
man  as  to  his  occupation  and  standing,  good  sir  ?  'Twould 
have  been  unseemly  in  a  stranger,  would  it  not  ?  Could  I  dai*e 
venture  on  questions,  he  being  all  unknown  to  any  of  us?" 

And  now  a  suspicion  flashed  upon  him  that  she  w^as  merely 
befooling  him,  so  he  came  at  once  and  sharply  to  the  point. 

"  Judith,"  said  he,  endeavoring  to  pierce  with  his  keen  eyes 
the  dusk  that  enshrouded  her,  "you  have  not  told  me  all. 
How  came  he  to  have  a  play  of  your  father's  in  his  possession?" 

"Now,"  said  she,  with  a  quick  anger,  "that  is  ill  done  of 
Prudence.  No  one  but  Prudence  knew ;  and  for  so  harmless 
a  secret — and  that  all  over  and  gone,  moreover,  and  the  young 
man  himself  away  I  know  not  where — nay,  by  my  life,  I  had 
not  thought  that  Prudence  would  serve  me  so.  And  to  what 
end?  Why,  good  six*,  I  myself  lent  the  young  man  the  sheets 
of  my  father's  writing — they  were  the  sheets  that  were  thrown 
aside — and  I  got  each  and  all  of  them  safely  back,  and  replaced 
them.  Prudence  knew  what  led  me  to  lend  him  my  father's 
play;  and  where  was  the  harm  of  it?  I  thought  not  that  she 
would  go  and  make  trouble  out  of  so  small  a  thing." 

By  this  time  the  good  parson  had  come  to  see  pretty  clearly 
how  matters  stood — what  with  Prudence's  explanations  and 
Judith's  present  confessions.  And  lac  made  no  douljt  thattliis 
stranger— whether  from  idleness,  or  for  amusement,  or  with 
some  more  sinister  purpose,  he  had  no  means  of  knowing — had 
copied  the  play  when  he  had  taken  the  sheets  home  with  him 
to  the  farm ;  while  as  to  the  appearance  in  London  of  the  copy 
so  taken,  it  was  sufficiently  obvious  that  Judith  was  in  complete 
ignorance,  and  could  aiford  no  information  whatever.  So  that 
now  the  first  part  of  his  mission  Avas  accomplislied.  He  asked 
her  a  few  more  questions,  and  easily  discovered  that  she  knew 
nothing  whatever  about  the  young  man's  position  in  life,  or 
w'hether  lie  liad  gone  straight  from  the  farm  to  London,  or 
whether  he  was  in  Loudon  now.  As  to  liis  being  in  possession, 
or  having  been  in  possession,  of  a  copy  of  her  father's  play,  it 
was  abundantly  evident  that  she  had  never  dreamed  of  any 
such  thing. 

And  now  he  came  to  the  more  personal  part  of  his  mission; 
that  was  for  him  mucli  more  serious. 

Judith,"  said  lie,  "  'tis  not  like  you  should  know  what  sad 


( < 


312  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

and  grievous  consequences  may  spring  from  errors  apparently 
small.  How  should  you?  You  will  take  no  heed  or  caution. 
The  advice  of  those  who  would  be  nearest  and  dearest  to  you  is 
of  no  account  with  you.  You  will  go  your  own  way,  as  if  one 
of  your  years  and  experience  could  know  the  pitfalls  that  lie 
in  a  young  maiden's  path.  The  whole  of  life  is  but  a  jest  to 
you — a  tale  without  meaning — something  to  pass  the  hour  with- 
al. And  think  you  that  such  blindness  and  willfulness  bring 
no  penalty?  Nay,  sooner  or  later  the  hour  strikes;  you  look 
back  and  see  what  you  have  done,  and  the  offers  of  safe  guid- 
ance that  you  have  neglected  or  thrust  aside." 

"I  pray  you,  sir,  what  is  it  now?"  she  said,  indifferently 
(and  with  a  distinct  wish  that  he  would  go  away  and  release 
her,  and  let  her  get  out  into  the  light  again).  "  Methought  I 
had  filled  up  the  measure  of  my  iniquities." 

"Thus  it  is — thus  it  will  be  always,"  said  he,  with  a  kind  of 
hopelessness,  "so  long  as  you  harden  your  heart,  and  have  no 
thought  but  for  the  vanities  of  the  moment."  And  then  he  ad- 
dressed her  more  pointedly.  "  But  even  now  methinks  I  can 
tell  you  what  will  startle  you  out  of  your  moi^al  sloth,  which 
is  an  offense  in  the  eyes  of  the  Lord,  as  it  is  a  cause  for  pity 
and  almost  despair  to  all  who  know  you.  It  was  a  light  mat- 
ter, you  think,  that  you  should  hold  this  secret  commerce  with 
a  stranger,  careless  of  the  respect  due  to  your  father's  house, 
careless  of  the  opinion  and  the  anxious  wishes  of  your  friends, 
careless  even  of  your  good  name — " 

"My  good  name?"  said  she,  quickly  and  sharply.  "I  pray 
you,  sir,  have  heed  what  you  say." 

"Have  heed  to  what  I  have  to  tell  you,  Judith,"  said  he, 
sternly.  "Ay,  and  take  warning  by  it.  Think  you  that  I 
have  i)leasure  in  being  a  bearer  of  evil  tidings?" 

"But  what  now,  sir?  What  now?  Heaven's  mercy  on  us, 
let  us  get  to  the  end  of  the  dreadful  deeds  I  have  done !"  she 
exclaimed,  with  some  anger  and  impatience. 

"I  would  spare  you,  but  may  not,"  said  he,  calmly.  "And 
now,  what  if  I  were  to  tell  you  tliat  this  young  man  whom 
you  encouraged  into  secret  conversation — whose  manners  seem- 
ed to  have  had  so  much  charm  for  you — was  a  rascal  thief  and 
villain?  How  would  your  pride  bear  it  if  I  told  you  that  he 
had  cozened  you  with  some  foolish  semblance  of  a  wizard  ?" 


"the  rose  is  from  my  garden  gone."  313 

"  Good  sir,  I  know  it,"  -she  retorted.  "  He  himself  told  me 
as  much." 

"Perchance.  Perchance  'twas  part  of  his  courteous  man- 
ners to  tell  you  as  much  !"  was  the  scornful  rejoinder.  "  But 
he  did  not  tell  you  all— he  did  not  tell  you  that  he  had  coi:)ied 
out  every  one  of  those  sheets  of  your  father's  writing;  that 
he  was  about  to  carry  that  stolen  copy  to  London,  like  the 
knave  and  thief  that  he  was;  that  he  was  to  offer  it  for  money 
to  the  booksellers?  He  did  not  tell  you  that  soon  your  father 
and  his  associates  in  the  theatre  would  be  astounded  by  learn- 
ing that  a  copy  of  the  new  play  had  been  obtained  in  some  dark 
fashion,  and  sold;  that  it  was  out  of  their  power  to  recover  it; 
that  their  intei'ests  would  be  seriously  affected  by  this  vile  con- 
spiracy; or  that  they  would  by-and-by  di.scover  that  this  pur- 
loined play,  which  was  like  to  cause  them  so  nmch  grievous 
loss  and  vexation  of  mind,  had  been  obtained  here,  in  this  very 
neighboi'hood,  and  by  the  aid  of  no  other  than  your  father's 
daughtei*." 

"Who — told — 3^ou — this?"  she  asked,  in  a  strange,  stunned 
way:  her  eyes  were  terror-stricken,  her  hands  all  trembling. 

"A  good  authority,"  said  he.  "Your  father.  A  lett'^r  Is 
but  now  come  from  London." 

She  uttered  a  low,  shuddering  cry;  it  was  a  moan  almost. 

"See  you  now,"  said  he  (for  he  knew  that  all  her  bravery 
was  struck  down,  and  she  entirely  at  his  mercy),  "  what  nmst 
ever  come  of  your  willfulness  and  your  scorn  of  those  who 
would  aid  and  guide  you?  Loving  counsel  and  protection  are 
offered  you — the  natural  shield  of  a  woman ;  but  you  must 
needs  go  your  own  way  alone.  And  to  what  ends?  Thijik 
you  that  this  is  all  ?  Not  so.  For  the  woman  who  makes  to 
herself  her  own  rule  of  conduct  must  be  prepared  for  calumni- 
ous tongues.  And  bethink  you  what  your  father  must  have 
thought  of  you — the  only  daughter  of  his  household  now — 
when  he  learned  the  story  of  this  young  man  coming  into 
Warwickshire,  and  befooling  you  with  his  wizai'd's  tricks,  and 
meeting  you  secretly,  and  cozening  you  of  the  sheets  of  your  fa- 
ther's play.  These  deeds  that  are  done  in  the  dark  soon  reach 
the  daylight;  and  can  you  wonder,  when  your  father  found 
your  name  abroad  in  London — the  heroine  of  a  common  jest, 
a  by-word — that  his  vexation  and  anger  should  overmaster 


314  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE, 

him  ?  What  marvel  that  he  sliouM  forthwith  send  to  Strat- 
ford demanding  to  know  what  fui'ther  coukl  be  learned  of 
the  matter,  perchance  fondly  trusting — who  knows  ? — to  find 
tliat  rumor  had  lied?  But  there  is  no  such  hope  for  him — 
nor  for  you.  What  must  your  mother  say  in  reply?  What  ex- 
cuse can  she  offer  ?  Or  how  make  reparation  to  those  associates 
of  your  father  who  suffer  with  him  ?  And  how  get  back  your 
good  name,  that  is  being  bandied  about  the  town  as  tlie  heroine 
of  a  foolish  jest?  Your  father  may  regain  possession  of  his 
property — I  know  not  whether  that  be  possible  or  no — but  can 
he  withdraw  the  name  of  his  daughter  from  the  ribald  wit  of 
the  taverns  ?  And  I  know  which  he  valueth  the  more  high- 
ly, if  his  own  daughter  know  it  not." 

He  had  struck  hard ;  he  knew  not  how  hard. 

"My  father  wrote  thus?"  she  said;  and  her  head  was  bent, 
Aud  her  hands  covering  her  face. 

"I  read  the  letter  no  more  than  an  hour  ago,"  said  he. 
"Your  mother  and  sister  would  have  me  come  over  to  see 
whether  such  a  story  could  be  true ;  but  Prudence  had  already 
admitted  as  much — " 

^'And  my  father  is  angered,"  she  said,  in  that  low  strange 
voice. 

"Can  you  wonder  at  it?"  he  said. 

Again  there  came  an  almost  inarticulate  moan,  like  that  of  an 
animal  stricken  to  death. 

As  for  him,  he  had  now  the  opiwrtunity  of  pouring  forth  the 
discourse  to  her  that  he  had  in  a  measure  prepared  as  he  came 
along  the  highway.  He  knew  right  well  that  she  would  be 
soi'ely  wounded  by  this  terrible  disclosure;  that  the  proud 
spirit  would  be  in  the  dust ;  that  she  would  be  in  a  very  be- 
wilderment of  grief.  And  he  thought  that  now  she  might 
consent  to  gentle  leading,  and  would  trust  herself  to  the  only 
one  (himself,  to  wit)  capable  of  guiding  her  through  her  sor- 
rows ;  and  he  had  many  texts  and  illustrations  apposite.  She 
heard  not  one  word.  She  was  as  motionless  as  one  dead;  and 
the  vision  that  rose  before  her  burning  brain  was  the  face  of 
her  father  as  she  had  seen  it — for  a  moment — in  the  garden,  on 
the  morning  of  his  departure.  That  terrible  swift  look  of  an- 
ger toward  old  Matthew  she  had  never  forgotten — the  sudden 
lowering  of  the  brows,  the  flash  in  the  eyes,  the  strange  con- 


"the  rose  is  from  my  garden  gone."  315 

traction  of  the  mouth ;  and  that  was  what  she  saw  now — that 
was  how  he  was  regarding-  her;  and  that,  she  knew,  would  be 
the  look  that  would  meet  her  always  and  always  as  she  lay  and 
thought  of  him  in  the  long  wakeful  nights.  She  could  not  go 
to  him.  London  was  far  away.  She  could  not  go  to  him,  and 
throw  herself  at  his  feet,  and  beg  and  pray  with  outstretched 
and  trembling  hands  for  but  one  wox'd  of  pity.  The  good  par- 
son had  struck  hard. 

And  yet  in  a  kind  of  way  he  was  trying  to  administer  conso- 
lation— at  all  events,  counsel.  He  was  enlarging  on  the  efRca- 
cy  of  prayer.  And  he  said  that  if  the  Canaanitish  woman  of 
old  had  power  to  intercede  for  her  daughter,  and  win  succor 
for  her,  surely  that  would  not  be  denied  to  such  a  one  as  Ju- 
dith's mother,  if  she  sought  for  her  daughter  strength  and  for- 
titude in  trouble  where  alone  these  could  be  found. 

"The  Canaanitish  woman,"  said  he,  "had  but  the  one  sav- 
ing grace — but  that  an  all-powerful  one — of  faith;  and  even 
when  the  disciples  would  have  her  sent  away,  she  followed, 
worshipping,  and  saying,  '  Lord,  help  me.'  And  the  Lord  him- 
self answered  and  said,  'It  is  not  good  to  take  the  children's 
bread,  and  to  cast  it  to  whelps.'  But  she  said,  'Truth,  Lord; 
yet  indeed  the  whelps  eat  of  the  crumbs  which  fall  from  their 
master's  table. '  Then  our  Lord  answered  and  said, '  O  woman, 
great  is  thy  faith:  be  it  to  thee  as  thou  desirest.'  And  her 
daughter  was  made  whole  at  that  hour." 

Judith  started  up— she  had  not  heard  a  single  word. 

"  I  pray  you  pardon  me,  good  sir,"  she  said — for  she  was  in 
a  half-frantic  state  of  misery  and  despair— "my— my  grand- 
mother will  speak  with  you.     I— I  pray  you  i^ardon  me—" 

She  got  uj)  into  her  own  little  chamber — she  scarce  knew 
how.  She  sat  down  on  the  bed.  There  were  no  tears  in  her 
eyes;  but  there  was  a  terrible  weight  on  her  chest  that  seemed 
to  stifle  her,  and  she  was  breathless,  and  could  not  think  aright, 
and  her  trembling  hands  were  clinched.  Sometimes  she  wild- 
ly thought  she  wanted  Prudence  to  come  to  her,  and  then  a 
kind  of  shudder  possessed  her,  and  a  wish  to  go  away — she 
cared  not  where — and  be  seen  no  more.  That  crushing  weight 
increased,  choking  her;  she  could  not  rest;  she  rose  and  went 
quickly  down  the  stair,  and  through  the  garden  into  the 
road. 


816  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

"Judith,  wench !"  called  her  grandmother,  who  was  talking 
to  the  parson. 

She  took  no  heed.     She  went  blindly  on ;  and  all  these  fa- 
miliar things  seemed  so  different  now.    How  could  the  children 
laugh  so  ?     She  got  into  the  Bidford  road ;  she  did  not  turn 
her  eyes  toward  any  Avhom  she  met,  to  see  whether  she  knew 
them  or  no :  there  was  enough  within  her  own  brain  for  her  to 
think  of.    She  made  her  way  to  the  summit  of  Bardon  Hill; 
and  there  she  looked  over  the  wide  landscape ;  but  it  was  to- 
ward London  that  she  looked — and  with  a  strange  and  trem- 
bling fear.     And  then  she  seemed  anxious  to  hide  away  from 
being  seen,  and  went  down  by  hedge-rows  and  field  paths;  and 
at  last  she  was  by  the  river.     She  regarded  it,  flowing  so  stealth- 
ily by,  in  the  sad  and  monotonous  silence.     Here  was  an  easy 
means  of  slipping  away  fi^om  all  this  dread  thing  that  seemed 
to  surround  her  and  overwhelm  her — to  glide  aAvay  as  noise- 
lessly and  peacefully  as  the  river  itself,  to  any  unknown  shore, 
she  cared  not  what.     And  then  she  sat  down — still  looking 
vaguely  and  absently  at  the  water— and  began  to  think  of  all 
that  had  happened  to  her  on  the  banks  of  this  stream ;  and  she 
looked  at  these  visionary  pictures  and  at  herself  in  them  as  if 
they  were  apart  and  separated  from  her,  and  she  never  to  be 
like  that  again.     Was  it  possible  that  she  ever  could  have  been 
so  cai'eless  and  so  happy,  with  no  weight  at  all  resting  on  her 
heart,  but  singing  out  of  mere  thoughtlessness,  and  teaching 
Willie  Hart  the  figures  of  dances,  herself  laughing  tlae  while? 
It  seemed  a  long  time  ago  now;  and  that  he  was  cut  off  from 
her  too,  and  all  of  them,  and  that  there  was  to  be  no  expia- 
tion for  evermore  for  this  that  she  had  done. 

How  long  she  sat  there  she  knew  not.  Everything  was  a 
blank  to  her  but  this  crushing  consciousness  that  what  had  hap- 
pened could  never  be  recalled;  that  her  father  and  she  were 
forever  separated  now — and  his  face  regarding  her  with  the  ter- 
rible look  she  had  seen  in  the  garden ;  that  all  the  happy  past 
was  cut  away  from  her,  and  she  an  outcast,  and  a  by-word,  and 
a  disgrace  to  all  that  knew  her.  And  then  she  thought,  in  the 
very  weariness  of  her  misery,  that  if  she  could  only  walk  away 
anywhere— anywhere  alone,  so  that  no  one  should  meet  her 
or  question  her— until  she  was  broken  and  exhausted  with 
fatigue,  she  would  then  go  back  to  her  own  small  room,  aud  lie 


"the  rose  is  from  my  garden  gone."  317 

down  on  the  bed,  and  try  if  sleep  would  procure  some  brief 
spell  of  forgetf  ulness,  some  relief  from  her  aching  head  and  far 
heavier  heart.  But  when  she  rose  she  found  that  she  was 
trembling  from  weakness;  and  a  kind  of  shiver  as  of  cold  went 
through  her,  though  the  autumn  day  was  warm  enough.  She 
walked  slowly,  and  almost  dragged  herself,  all  the  way  home. 
Hsr  hand  shook  so  that  she  could  scarce  undo  the  latch  of  the 
gate.  She  heard  her  grandmother  in  the  inner  apartment ;  but 
she  managed  to  creep  noiselessly  upstairs  into  her  own  little 
chamber ;  and  there  she  sank  down  on  the  bed,  and  lay  in  a 
kind  of  stupor,  pressing  her  hands  on  her  throbbing  brow. 

It  was  some  two  hours  afterward  that  her  grandmother, 
who  did  not  know  that  Judith  had  returned,  was  walking  along 
the  little  passage,  and  was  startled  by  hearing  a  low  moaning 
above— a  kind  of  dull  cry  of  pain,  so  slight  that  she  had  to  listen 
again  ere  she  could  be  sure  that  it  was  not  mere  fancy.  In- 
stantly she  went  up  the  few  wooden  steps  and  opened  the  door. 
Judith  was  lying  on  the  bed,  with  all  her  things  on,  just  as  she 
had  seen  her  go  forth.  And  then— perhaps  the  noise  of  the 
opening  of  the  door  had  wakened  her — she  started  up,  and 
looked  at  her  grandmother  in  a  wild  and  dazed  kind  of  way,  as 
if  she  had  just  shaken  off  some  terrible  dream. 

"  Oh,  grandmother,"  she  said,  springing  to  her  and  clinging 
to  her  like  a  child,  "it  is  not  true— it  is  not  true— it  can  not 
be  true !" 

But  then  she  fell  to  crying— crying  as  if  her  heart  would 
break.  The  whole  weight  of  her  misery  came  back  upon 
her;  and  the  hopelessness  of  it;  and  her  despair. 

"Why,  good  lass,"  said  her  grandmother,  smoothing  the  sun- 
brown  hair  that  was  buried  in  her  bosom,  and  trying  to  calm 
the  violence  of  the  girl's  sobbing,  "thou  must  not  take  on 
so.  Thy  father  may  be  angered,  'tis  true;  but  there  will  come 
brighter  days  for  thee.     Nay,  take  not  on  so,  good  lass." 

"  Oh,  grandmother,  you  can  not  understand,"  she  said,  and 
her  whole  frame  was  shaken  with  her  sobs.  "You  can  not 
understand.  Grandmother,  grandmother,  there  was— there 
was  but  the  one  rose— in  my  garden— and  that  is  gone  now." 

13* 


318  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

IN  TIME  OP  NEED. 

Late  that  night,  in  the  apartment  below,  Tom  Quiney  was 
seated  by  the  big  fire-place,  staring  moodily  into  the  chips  and 
logs  that  had  been  lit  there,  the  evenings  having  grown  some- 
what chill  now.  There  was  a  little  parcel  lying  unopened  and 
unheeded  on  the  table.  He  had  not  had  patience  to  wait  for 
the  fair  of  the  morrow ;  he  had  ridden  all  the  way-  to  War- 
wick to  purchase  something  worthy  of  Judith's  acceptance; 
and  he  had  come  over  to  the  cottage  in  high  hopes  of  her  be- 
ing still  in  that  kindly  mood  that  reminded  him  of  other  days. 
Then  came  the  good  dame's  story  of  what  had  befallen,  and 
how  that  the  parson  had  been  over,  bringing  with  him  these 
terrible  tidings;  and  how  that  since  then  Judith  would  not 
hear  of  any  one  being  sent  for,  and  would  take  no  food,  but 
was  now  lying  there,  alone  in  the  dark,  moaning  to  hereelf  at 
times.  And  the  good  dame — as  this  tall  young  fellow  sat  there 
listening  to  her,  with  liis  fists  clinched,  and  the  look  on  his 
face  ever  growing  darker — went  on  to  express  lier  fear  that 
the  parson  had  been  over-hard  with  her  gi*andchild;  that  prob- 
ably he  could  not  understand  how  her  father  had  been  the 
very  idol  of  her  life-long  worship;  that  the  one  thing  she  was 
ever  thinking  of  was  how  to  win  his  approval,  to  be  rewarded 
by  even  a  nod  of  encouragement. 

"Nay,  I  liked  nou  the  manner  of  his  speaking,  when  he  wur 
come  to  me  in  the  garden,"  the  old  dame  continued.  "  I  liked 
it  not.  He  be  sharp  of  tongue,  the  young  pahrson ;  and  there 
wur  too  much  to  my  mind  of  discipline,  and  chastening  of 
proud  sjiirits,  and  the  like  o'  that.  To  my  mind  he  have  not 
years  enough  to  be  jjlaced  in  such  authority." 

"The  Church  is  behind  him,"  said  this  young  fellow,  almost 
to  himself,  and  his  eyes  were  burning  darkly  as  he  spoke.  ' '  I 
may  not  put  hand  on  him.  The  Church  is  behind  him.  Mar- 
ry, 'tis  a  goodly  shelter  for  men  that  be  of  the  woman  kind." 

Then  he  looked  up  quickly,  and  his  words  were  savage. 


IN  TIME  OF  NEED.  319 

"What  think  you,  good  grandmother,  were  one  to  seize  him 
by  neck  and  heel  and  break  his  back  on  the  rail  of  Clopton's 
bridge  ?  Were  it  not  well  done  ? — by  my  life,  I  think  it  were 
well  done !" 

"Nay,  nay,  now,"  said  she,  quickly,  for  she  was  somewhat 
alarmed,  seeing  his  face  set  hard  with  passion  and  his  eyes  afire. 
"I  would  have  no  brawling.  There  be  plenty  of  harm  done 
already.  Perchance  the  good  pahrson  hath  not  spoken  so  harsh- 
ly after  all.  In  good  sooth,  now,  none  but  her  own  people  can 
understand  how  the  wench  liath  ever  looked  up  to  her  father 
for  a  word  or  a  nod  commending  her,  as  I  say,  and  when  she 
be  told  now  that  she  hath  wrought  mischief,  and  caused  her- 
self to  be  talked  about,  and  her  father  vexed,  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  tale,  why, 'tis  like  to  drive  her  out  of  her  mind.  And  now 
this  be  all  her  cry — that  she  may  see  no  one  of  her  people  any 
more ;  she  would  bide  with  me  here.  '  Gi-andmother,  grandmo- 
ther,' she  saith,  'I  will  bide  with  you,  if  you  will  suffer  me. 
I  will  show  myself  in  Stratford  no  more ;  they  shall  have  no 
shame  through  me.'  Nay,  but  the  wencli  be  half  out  of  her 
senses,  as  I  think;  and  saith  wild  things— that  she  would  go 
and  sell  herself  to  be  a  slave  in  the  Indies,  could  she  restore 
the  money  to  her  father  or  bring  him  back  this  that  he  hath 
lost.  'Tis  a  terrible  plight  for  the  poor  wench;  and  always 
she  saith,  '  Grandmother,  grandmother,  let  me  bide  with  you; 
I  will  never  go  back  to  New  Place;  grandmother,  I  can  work 
as  well  as  any,  and  you  will  let  me  bide  with  you.'  Poor 
lass — poor  lass!" 

"But  how  came  the  parson  to  interfere  ?"  Quiney  said,  hotly. 
"I'll  be  sworn  Judith's  father  did  not  write  !  o  him.  How  came 
he  to  be  preaching  his  discipline  and  chastisement  ?  How  came 
he  to  be  intrusted  with  the  task  of  abusing  her  and  crushing 
the  too  proud  spirit  ?  By  heavens,  now,  there  may  be  occasion 
ere  long  to  tame  some  one's  proud  spirit,  but  not  the  spirit  of 
a  defenseless  young  maid — marry,  that  is  work  fit  only  for  par- 
sons.    Man  to  man  is  the  better  way,  and  it  will  come  ere  long." 

"  Nay,  softly,  softly,  good  Master  Quiney,"  .said  the  old  dame, 
in  her  gentlest  tones.  "  Would  you  mar  all  the  good  opinion 
that  Judith  hath  of  you  ?  Why,  to-day,  now,  just  ere  the  pahr- 
son came,  I  wur  in  the  garden,  putting  things  straight  a  bit,  and 
as  she  came  through  she  says  to  me,  quite  pleasant  like,  'I 


330  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

have  just  been  across  the  fields,  grandmother,  with  Master  Qui- 
ney' — or  Tom  Quiney,  as  she  said,  being  friendly  and  pleasant 
like — '  and  I  hear  less  now  of  his  quarrelling  and  fighting  among 
the  young  men ;  and  his  business  goeth  on  well ;  and  to-morrow, 
grandmother,  he  is  going  to  buy  me  something  at  the  fair.'  " 

"Said  she  all  that?"  he  asked,  quickly,  and  with  a  flush  of 
color  rushing  to  his  face. 

"Marry,  did  she ;  and  looked  pleased ;  for  'tis  a  right  friend- 
ly wench  and  good-natured  withal,"  the  old  dame  said,  glad 
to  see  that  these  words  had  for  the  moment  scattered  his  wrath 
to  the  winds;  and  she  went  on  for  some  little  time  talking  to 
him  in  her  garrulous  easy  fashion  about  Judith's  frank  and 
honest  qualities,  and  her  good-hearted  ways,  and  the  pretty 
daintinesses  of  her  coaxing  when  she  was  so  inclined.  It  was 
a  story  he  was  not  loath  to  listen  to,  and  yet  it  seemed  so 
strange:  they  were  talking  of  her  almost  as  of  one  passed 
away — as  if  the  girl  lying  there  in  that  dai-kened  room,  instead 
of  torturing  her  brain  with  incessant  and  lightning-like  visions 
of  all  the  harm  she  had  caused  in  London,  were  now  far  re- 
moved from  all  such  troubles,  and  hushed  in  the  calm  of  death. 

He  went  to  tlie  table  and  opened  the  box,  and  took  out  the 
little  present  he  had  brought  for  Judith.  It  was  a  pair  of  lace 
cuffs,  with  a  slender  silver  circle  at  the  wrist ;  the  lace  going 
back  from  that  in  a  succession  of  widening  leaves.  It  was  not 
only  a  pretty  present,  it  was  also  (in  proportion  to  his  means) 
a  costly  one,  as  the  old  dame's  sharp  eyes  instantly  saw. 

"I  think  she  would  have  been  pleased  with  them,"  he  said, 
absently. 

Ajid  then  he  said, 

"Good  grandmother,  it  were  of  no  use  to  lay  them  near  her 
in  the  morning — on  a  chair  or  at  the  window — that  perchance 
she  might  look  at  them  ?" 

"Nay,  nay,"  the  grandmother  said,  shaking  her  head: 
"'tis  no  child's  trouble  that  hath  befallen  the  poor  wench, 
that  she  can  be  comforted  with  pretty  trifles." 

"I  meant  not  that,"  said  he,  flushing  somewhat.  " 'Tis 
that  I  would  have  her  know  that — that  there  were  friends 
thinking  of  her  all  the  same ;  those  that  would  rather  have  her 
gladdened  and  tended  and  made  much  of  rather  than — than — 
chidden  witli  any  chastisement." 


IN  TIME  OF  NEED.  331 

This  word  chastisement  seemed  to  recall  his  anger. 

"  I  say  that  Judith  hath  done  no  wrong  at  all,"  he  said,  as  if 
he  were  confronting  some  one  not  there ;  "and  that  I  will  main- 
tain; and  let  no  man  in  my  hearing  say  aught  else.  Why, 
now,  the  story  as  you  tell  it,  good  gi*andmothex' — 'tis  as  plain 
as  daylight — a  child  can  see  it:  all  that  she  did  was  done  to 
magnify  her  father  and  his  writing;  and  if  the  villain  sold 
the  play,  or  let  it  slip  out  of  his  hands,  was  that  her  doing  ? 
Doubtless  it  is  a  sore  mischance;  but  I  see  not  that  Judith  is  to 
be  blamed  for  it;  and  right  well  I  know  that  if  her  father  were 
to  hear  how  she  is  smitten  down  with  grief,  he  would  be  the 
fli-st  to  say:  '  Good  lass,  there  is  no  such  harm  done.  A  great- 
er harm  would  be  your  falling  sick ;  get  you  up  and  out ;  seek 
your  friends  again;  and  be  happy  as  you  were  before.'  That 
is  what  he  would  sa}'-,  I  will  take  my  oath  of  it ;  and  if  the  par- 
son and  his  chastisements  were  to  come  across  him,  by  my 
life  I  would  not  seek  to  be  in  the  parson's  shoes!" 

"I  must  make  another  trial  with  the  poor  wench,"  said  the 
good  grandmother,  rising,  "that  hath  eaten  nothing  all  the  day. 
In  truth,  her  only  cry  is  to  be  left  alone  now,  and  that  here- 
after I  am  to  let  her  bide  with  me.  It  be  a  poor  shelter,  I 
think,  for  one  used  to  live  in  a  noble  house ;  but  there  'tis,  so 
long  as  she  wisheth  it." 

"Nay, but  this  can  not  be  suffered  to  go  on,  good  Mistress 
Hathaway,"  said  he,  as  he  rose  and  got  his  cap.  "For  if  Ju- 
dith take  no  food,  and  will  see  no  one,  and  be  alone  with  her 
trouble,  of  a  surety  she  will  fall  ill.  Now  to-morrow  morn- 
ing I  will  bring  Prudence  over.  If  any  can  comfort  her, 
Prudence  can;  and  that  she  will  be  right  willing,  I  know. 
They  have  been  as  sisters." 

"That  be  well  thought  of,  Master  Quiney,"  said  the  grand- 
mother, as  she  went  to  the  door  with  him.  "Take  care  o'  the 
ditch  the  other  side  of  the  way;  it  be  main  dark  o'  nights  now." 

"Good-night  to  you,  good  grandmother,"  said  he,  as  he 
disappeared  in  the  darkness. 

But  it  was  neither  back  home  nor  yet  to  Stratford  town  that 
Tom  Quiney  thought  of  going  all  that  long  night.  He  felt  a 
kind  of  consti'aint  upon  him  (and  yet  aconsti'aint  tiiat  kept  his 
heart  warm  with  a  secret  satisfaction)  that  he  should  play  the 
part  of  watch-dog,  as  it  were— as  if  Judith  were  sorely  ill,  or  in 


322  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

danger,  or  in  need  of  protection  somehow ;  and  he  kept  wan- 
dering about  in  the  dark,  never  at  any  great  radius  fi'oni  the 
cottage.  His  self-imposed  task  was  the  easier  now  that  as  the 
black  clouds  overhead  slowly  moved  before  the  soft  westerly 
wind,  gaps  were  opened,  and  here  and  there  clusters  of  stars 
were  visible,  shedding  a  faint  light  down  on  the  sombre  roads 
and  fields  and  hedges.  Many  strange  fancies  occurred  to  him 
during  that  long  and  silent  night  as  to  what  he  could  do,  or 
would  like  to  do,  for  Judith's  sake.  Breaking  the  parson's 
neck  was  the  first  and  most  natural,  and  the  most  easily  ac- 
complished; but  fleeing  the  country,  which  he  knew  must  fol- 
low, did  not  seem  so  desirable  a  thing.  He  wanted  to  do 
something — he  knew  not  what.  He  wished  he  had  been  less 
of  a  companion  with  the  young  men,  and  less  careful  to  show, 
with  them,  that  Stratford  town,  and  the  county  of  Warwick, 
could  hold  their  own  against  all  comers.  If  he  had  been  more 
considerate  and  gentle  with  Judith,  perhaps  she  would  not  have 
sought  the  society  of  the  parson  ?  He  knew  he  had  not  the  art 
of  winning  her  over,  like  the  parson.  He  could  not  speak  so 
plausibly.  Nor  had  he  the  authority  of  the  Chui'ch  behind 
him.  It  was  natural  for  women  to  think  much  of  that,  and  to 
be  glad  of  the  shelter  of  authority.  Parsons  themselves  (he 
considered)  were  a  kind  of  half-women,  being  in  women's  se- 
crets, and  entitled  to  speak  to  them  in  ghostly  confidence.  But 
if  Judith,  now — wanted  some  one  to  do  something  for  her,  no 
matter  what,  in  his  rough-and-ready  way — well,  he  wondered 
what  that  could  be  that  he  would  refuse.  And  so  the  dark 
hours  went  by. 

With  the  gray  of  the  dawn  he  began  to  cast  his  eyes  abroad, 
as  if  to  see  if  any  one  were  stirring,  or  approaching  the  cluster 
of  cottages  nestled  down  there  among  the  trees.  The  daylight 
widened  and  spread  up  in  the  trembling  east;  the  fields  and 
the  woods  became  clear;  here  and  there  a  small  tuft  of  blue 
smoke  began  to  arise  from  a  cottage  chimney.  And  now  he 
was  on  Bardon  Hill,  and  could  look  abroad  over  the  wide  land- 
scape lying  between  Shottery  and  Stratford  town ;  and  if  any 
one — any  one  bringing  lowering  brows  and  further  cruel  speech 
to  a  poor  maid  already  stricken  down  and  defenseless — had 
been  in  sight,  what  tlien  ?  Watchfully  and  slowly  he  went 
down  from  the  hill,  and  back  to  the  meadows  lying  between 


IN  TIBIE  OF  NEED.  323 

the  hamlet  and  Stratford,  there  to  interpose,  as  it  were,  and 
question  all  comers.  And  well  it  was,  for  the  sake  of  x^eace  and 
charity,  that  the  good  parson  did  not  chance  to  be  early  abroad 
on  this  still  morning;  and  well  it  was  for  the  young  man  him- 
self. There  was  no  wise-eyed  Athene  to  descend  from  the 
clouds  and  bid  this  wrathful  Achilles  calm  his  heart.  He  was 
only  an  English  country  youth — though  sufficiently  Greek -like 
in  form;  and  he  was  hungry,  and  gray-faced  with  his  vigil  of 
the  night,  and  not  in  a  placable  mood.  Nay,  when  a  young 
man  is  possessed  with  the  consciousness  that  he  is  the  defend- 
er of  some  one  behind  him— some  one  who  is  weak,  and  femi- 
nine, and  suffering — he  is  apt  to  prove  a  dangerous  antago- 
nist ;  and  it  was  well  for  all  concerned  that  he  had  no  occa- 
sion to  pick  a  quarrel  on  this  morning  in  these  quiet  meadows. 
In  truth,  he  might  have  been  more  at  rest  had  he  known  that 
the  good  parson  was  in  no  hurry  to  follow  up  his  monitions  of 
the  previous  day;  he  wished  these  to  sink  into  her  mind  and 
take  root  there,  so  that  thereafter  might  spring  up  such  whole- 
some fruits  as  repentance,  and  humility,  and  the  desire  of 
godly  aid  and  counsel. 

By-and-by  he  slipped  away  home,  plunged  his  head  into  cold 
water  to  banish  the  dreams  of  the  night;  and  then,  having 
swallowed  a  cup  of  milk  to  stay  his  hunger,  he  went  along  to 
Chapel  Street,  to  see  if  he  could  have  speech  of  Prudence.  He 
found  that  not  only  were  all  of  the  household  up  and  doing, 
but  that  Prudence  herself  was  ready  to  go  out,  being  bent  on 
one  of  her  charitable  errands.  And  it  needed  but  a  word 
to  alter  the  direction  of  her  kindness:  of  course  she  would  at 
once  go  to  see  Judith. 

"Truly  I  had  fears  of  it,"  said  she,  as  they  went  through 
the  fields,  the  pale,  calm  face  having  grown  more  and  more 
anxious  as  she  listened  to  all  that  he  had  to  tell  her.  "Her 
father  was  as  the  light  of  the  world  to  her.  With  the  others 
of  us  she  hath  ever  been  headstrong  in  a  measure  and  careless 
— and  yet  so  lovable  withal  and  merry  that  I  for  one  could 
never  withstand  her:  nay,  I  confess  I  tried  not  to  withstand  her, 
for  never  knew  I  of  any  willfulness  of  hers  springing  from  any- 
thing but  good-nature  and  her  kind  and  generous  ways.  But 
that  she  was  ever  ready  to  brave  our  opinions  I  know,  and 
perchance  make  light  of  our  anxieties,  we  not  having  her  cour- 


334  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

age;  and  in  all  things  she  seemed  to  be  a  guide  luitu  lierself^ 
and  to  walk  sure,  and  have  no  fear.  In  all  things  but  one. 
Indeed,  'tis  true  what  her  grandmother  told  you,  and  who 
should  know  better  than  I,  who  was  always  with  her  ?  The 
slightest  wish  of  her  father's — that  was  law  to  her.  A  word 
of  commending  from  him,  and  she  was  happy  for  days.  And 
think  what  this  must  be  now — she  that  was  so  proud  of  his 
approval — that  scarce  thought  of  aught  else.  Nay,  for  myself, 
I  can  see  that  they  have  told  him  all  a  wrong  stoi'y  in  London, 
that  know  I  well;  and  'tis  no  wonder  that  he  is  vexed  and 
angry;  but  Judith — poor  Judith — " 

She  could  say  no  more  just  then;  she  turned  aside  her 
face  somewhat. 

"Do  you  know  what  she  said  to  her  grandmother.  Prudence, 
when  she  fell  a-crying? — that  there  had  been  but  the  one  rose 
in  her  gai-den,  and  that  was  gone  now." 

"  'Tis  what  Susan  used  to  sing, "said  Prudence,  with  rather 
trembling  lips.  "  'The  rose  is  from  my  garden  gone,'  'twas 
called.  Ay,  and  hath  she  that  on  her  mind  now?  Truly  I 
wish  that  her  mother  and  Susan  had  let  me  break  this  news 
to  her;  none  know  as  well  as  I  what  it  must  be  to  her." 

And  here  Tom  Quiney  quickly  asked  her  whether  it  was  not 
clear  to  her  that  the  parson  had  gone  beyond  his  mission  al- 
together, and  that  in  a  way  that  would  have  to  be  dealt  with 
afterward,  when  all  these  things  Avere  amended .  Prudence, 
with  some  faint  color  in  her  pale  face,  defended  Master  Blaise 
to  the  best  of  her  power,  and  said  she  knew  he  could  not 
have  been  unduly  harsh;  nay,  had  she  not  herself,  just  as  he 
was  setting  forth,  besought  him  to  be  kind  and  considerate 
with  Judith  ?  Hereupon  Quiney  rather  brusquely  asked  what 
the  good  man  could  mean  by  plirases  about  discipline  and 
chastenings  and  chastisements;  to  which  Prudence  answered 
gently  that  these  were  but  separate  words,  and  that  she  was 
sure  Master  Blaise  had  fulfilled  what  he  undertook  in  a  mei'cif ul 
spirit,  which  was  his  nature.  After  that  there  was  a  kind  of 
silence  between  these  two;  perhaps  Quiney  considered  that  no 
good  end  could  be  served  at  present  by  stating  his  own  ideas 
on  that  subject.     The  proper  time  would  come  in  due  course. 

At  length  they  reached  the  cottage.  But  here,  to  their 
amazement,  and  to  the  infinite   distress  of   Prudence,  when 


IN  TIME  OF  NEED.  325 

Judith's  grandmother  came  down  the  wooden  steps  again,  she 
shook  her  head,  saying  that  the  wench  would  see  no  one. 
"  I  thought  as  'twould  be  so,"  she  said. 

"But  me,  good  grandmother! — me!"  Prudence  cried,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes.     ' '  Surely  she  will  not  refuse  to  see  me !" 

"No  one,  she  saith,"  was  the  answer.  "Poor  wench,  her 
head  do  ache  so  bad !  And  when  one  would  cheer  her  or  com- 
fort her  a  morsel,  'tis  another  fit  of  ci*ying — that  will  wear  her 
to  skin  and  bone,  if  she  do  not  pluck  up  better  heart.  She 
hath  eaten  naught  this  morning  neither;  'tis  for  no  willfulness, 
poor  lass,  for  she  tried  an  hour  ago;  and  now  'tis  best,  as  I 
think,  to  leave  her  alone." 

"By  your  leave,  good  grandmother,"  said  Prudence,  with 
some  firmness,  "that  will  I  not.  If  Judith  be  in  such  trouble, 
'tis  not  likely  that  I  should  go  away  and  leave  her.  It  hath 
never  been  the  custom  between  us  two." 

"As  you  will.  Prudence,"  the  grandmother  said.  "Young 
hearts  have  their  confidences  among  tliemselves.  Perchance 
you  may  be  able  to  rouse  her." 

Prudence  went  up  the  stairs  silently,  and  opened  the  door. 
Judith  was  lying  on  the  bed,  her  face  turned  away  from  the 
light,  her  hands  clasped  over  her  forehead. 
"Judith!" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Judith,"  said  her  friend,  going  near,  "I  am  come  to  see  you." 
There  was  a  kind  of  sob — tliat  was  all. 

"Judith,  is  your  head  so  bad  ?     Can  I  do  nothing  for  you  ?" 

She  put  over  her  hand — the  soft  and  cool  and  gentle  touch  of 

which  had  comforted  many  a  sick-bed — and  she  was  startled  to 

find  that  both  Judith's  hands  and  forehead  were  burning  hot. 

"No,  sweetheart,"  was  the  answer,  in  a  low  and  broken 

voice,  "you  can  do  nothing  for  me  now." 

"Nay,  nay,  Judith,  take  heart,"  Prudence  said,  and  she 
gently  removed  the  hot  fingers  from  the  burning  forehead, 
and  put  her  own  cooler  hand  there,  as  if  to  dull  the  throbbing 
of  the  pain.  "Sweetheart,  be  not  so  cast  down.  'Twill  be  all 
put  I'iglit  in  good  time." 

"Never — never,"  the  girl  said,  without  tears,  but  with  an 
abject  hopelessness  of  tone.  "It  can  never  be  undone  now. 
He  said  my  name  was  become  a  mockery  among  my  father's 


326  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

friends.  For  myself,  I  would  not  heed  that — nay,  they  might 
say  of  me  what  they  pleased ;  but  that  my  father  should  hear  of 
it — a  mockery  and  scorn — and  they  think  I  cared  so  little  for 
my  father  that  I  was  ready  to  give  away  his  papers  to  any  one 
pretending  to  be  a  sweetheart  and  befooling  me — and  my  father 
to  know  it  all,  and  to  hear  such  things  said — no,  that  can  never 
be  undone  now.  I  used  to  count  the  weeks  and  the  days  and 
the  very  hours  when  I  knew  he  was  coming  back ;  that  was  the 
joy  of  my  life  to  me;  and  now  if  I  were  to  know  that  he  were 
coming  near  to  Stratford  I  should  fly,  and  hide  somewhere— 
anywhere — in  the  river  as  lief  as  not.  Nay,  I  make  no  com- 
plaint.    'Tis  my  own  doing,  and  it  can  not  be  undone  now." 

"Judith!  Judith!  you  break  my  heai't!"  her  friend  cried. 
"Surely  to  all  troubles  there  must  come  an  end." 

"Yes,  yes,"  was  the  answer,  in  alow  voice,  and  almost  as  if 
she  were  speaking  to  herself.  "That  is  right.  There  will 
come  an  end.     I  would  it  were  here  now." 

All  Prudence's  talking  seemed  to  be  of  no  avail.  She  rea- 
soned and  besought,  oftentimes  with  tears  in  her  eyes;  but  Ju- 
dith remained  quite  listless  and  hopeless;  she  seemed  to  be  in 
a  stunned  and  dazed  condition  after  the  long  sleeplessness  of 
the  night,  and  Prudence  was  afraid  that  further  entreaties 
would  only  aggravate  her  headache. 

"I  will  go  and  get  you  something  to  eat  now,"  said  she. 
"Your  grandmother  says  you  have  had  nothing  since  yester- 
day." 

"Do  not  trouble;  'tis  needless,  sweetheart,"  Judith  said. 
And  then  she  added,  with  a  brief  shiver,  "But  if  you  could 
fetch  a  thick  cloak,  dear  Prudence,  and  throw  it  over  me— 
surely  the  day  is  cold  somewhat." 

A  few  minutes  after  (so  swift  and  eager  was  everybody  in 
the  house),  Judith  was  warmly  wrapped  up;  and  by  the  side 
of  the  bed,  on  a  chair,  was  some  food  the  good  grandmother 
had  been  keeping  ready,  and  also  a  flask  of  wine  that  Qui- 
ney  had  brought  with  him. 

"Look  you,  Judith,"  said  Prudence,  "here  is  some  wine 
that  Thomas  Quiney  hath  brought  for  you — 'tis  of  a  rare  qual- 
ity, he  saith — and  you  must  take  a  little — nay,  you  must  and 
shall,  sweetheart ;  and  then  perchance  you  may  be  able  to  eat." 

She  sipped  a  little  of  the  wine — it  was  but  to  show  her  grat- 


IN  TIME  OF  NEED.  327 

itude  and  send  him  her  thanks.  She  could  not  touch  the  food. 
She  seemed  mostly  anxious  for  rest  and  quiet;  and  so  Prudence 
noiselessly  left  her,  and  stole  down  the  stair  again. 

Prudence  was  terribly  perplexed,  and  in  a  kind  of  despair 
almost. 

"I  know  not  what  to  do,"  she  said.  "  I  would  bring  over 
her  mother  and  Susan,  but  that  she  begs  and  prays  me  not  to 
do  that — nay,  she  can  not  see  them,  she  says.  And  there  is  no 
reasoning  with  her.  '  It  can  not  be  undone  now' — that  is  her 
constant  cry.  What  to  do  I  can  not  tell.  For  surely,  if  she 
remain  so,  and  take  no  comfort,  she  will  fall  ill." 

"Ay,  and  if  that  be  so,  who  is  to  blame?"  said  Quiney,  who 
was  walking  up  and  down  in  considerable  agitation.  "I  say 
that  letter  should  never  have  been  put  into  the  parson's  hands. 
Was  it  meant  to  be  conveyed  to  Juditli?  I  warrant  me  it  was 
not!  Did  her  father  say  that  he  wished  her  chidden?  did 
he  ask  any  of  you  to  bid  the  parson  go  to  her  with  his  up- 
braidings?  would  he  himself  have  been  so  quick  and  eager  to 
chasten  her  proud  spirit  ?  I  tell  you  no.  He  is  none  of  the 
parson  kind.  Vexed  he  might  have  been;  but  he  would  have 
taken  no  vengeance.  Wliat  ? — on  his  own  child  ?  By  hea- 
vens, Illbe  sworn,  now,  that  if  he  were  here,  at  this  minute,  he 
would  take  the  girl  by  the  hand,  and  laugh  at  her  for  being  so 
afraid  of  his  anger — ay,  I  warrant  me  he  would — and  would 
bid  her  be  of  good  cheer,  and  brighten  her  face,  that  was  ever 
the  brightest  in  Warwickshire,  as  I  have  heard  him  say.  That 
would  he — my  life  on  it !" 

"Ah,"  said  Prudence,  wistfully,  "if  you  could  only  per- 
suade Judith  of  that !" 

"Persuade  her?"  said  he.  "Why,  I  would  stake  my  life 
that  is  what  her  father  would  do !" 

"  You  could  not  persuade  her,"  said  Prudence,  with  a  hope- 
less air.  "No;  she  thinks  it  is  all  over  now  between  lier  fa- 
ther and  her.  She  is  disgraced  and  put  away  from  him.  She 
hath  done  him  such  injury,  she  says,  as  even  his  enemies  have 
never  done.  When  he  comes  back  again,  she  says,  to  Strat- 
ford, she  will  be  here ;  and  she  knows  that  he  will  never  come 
near  this  house ;  and  that  will  be  better  for  her,  she  says,  for 
she  could  never  again  meet  him  face  to  face." 

Well,  all  that  day  Judith  lay  there  in  that  solitary  room. 


328  JUDITH  SHAKESPEAKE. 

desiring  only  to  be  left  alone,  taking  no  food,  the  racking 
pains  in  her  head  returning  from  time  to  time;  and  now  and 
again  she  shivered  slightly  as  if  from  cold.  Tom  Quiney  kept 
coming  and  going  to  hear  news  of  her,  or  to  consult  with  Pru- 
dence as  to  how  to  rouse  her  from  this  hopelessness  of  grief; 
and  as  the  day  slowly  jjassed  he  grew  more  and  more  disturbed 
and  anxious  and  restless.  Could  nothing  be  done  ?  could  no- 
thing be  done  ?  was  his  constant  cry. 

He  remained  late  that  evening,  and  Prudence  staid  all 
night  at  the  cottage.  In  the  morning  he  was  over  again  early, 
and  more  distressed  than  ever  to  hear  that  the  girl  was  wearing 
herself  out  with  this  agony  of  remorse — crying  stealthily  when 
that  she  thought  no  one  was  near,  and  hiding  herself  away 
from  the  light,  and  refusing  to  be  comforted. 

But  during  the  long  and  silent  watches  he  had  been  taking 
counsel  with  himself. 

"Prudence,"  said  he,  regarding  her  with  a  curious  look, 
''  do  you  think,  now,  if  some  assurance  were  come  from  her  fa- 
ther himself — some  actual  message  from  him — a  kindly  mes- 
sage— some  token  that  he  was  far  indeed  from  casting  her  away 
from  him — think  you  Judith  would  be  glad  to  have  that  ?" 

"  'T would  be  like  giving  her  life  back  to  her,"  said  the  girl, 
simply.  ' '  In  truth,  I  dread  what  may  come  of  this :  'tis  not  in 
human  nature  to  withstand  such  misery  of  mind.  My  poor 
Judith,  that  was  ever  so  careless  and  merx*y !" 

He  hesitated  for  a  second  or  two,  and  then  he  said,  looking 
at  her,  and  speaking  in  a  cautious  kind  of  way : 

"  Because,  when  next  I  have  need  to  write  to  London,  I 
might  beg  of  some  one — my  brother  Dick,  perchance,  that  is 
now  in  Bucklersbuiy,  and  would  have  small  trouble  in  doing 
such  a  service — I  say  I  might  beg  of  him  to  go  and  see  Ju- 
dith's father,  and  tell  him  the  true  story,  and  show  him  that 
she  was  not  so  much  to  blame.  Nay,  for  my  part,  I  see  not 
that  she  was  to  blame  at  all,  but  for  overkindness  and  confi- 
dence, and  the  wish  to  exalt  her  father.  The  mischief  that 
hath  been  wrought  is  the  doing  of  the  scoundrel  and  villain,  on 
whose  head  I  trust  it  may  fall  ere  long;  'twas  none  of  hers. 
And  if  her  father  were  to  have  all  that  now  put  fairly  and 
straight  before  him,  think  you  he  would  not  be  right  sorry  to 
hear  that  she  had  taken  his  anger  so  much  to  heart,  and  was  ly- 


IN  TIME   OF  NEED.  329 

ing  almost  as  one  dead  at  the  very  thought  of  it  ?  I  tell  you, 
now,  if  all  this  be  put  before  him,  and  if  he  send  her  no  com- 
fortable message— ay,  and  that  forthwith  and  gladly— I  have 
far  misread  him.  And  as  for  her.  Prudence,  'twould  be  w^el- 
come,  say  you  ?" 

'"Twould  be  of  the  value  of  all  the  world  to  her,"  Prudence 
said,  in  her  direct  and  earnest  way. 

Well,  he  almost  immediately  thereafter  left  (seeing  that  he 
could  be  of  no  further  help  to  these  women-folk),  and  walked 
quickly  back  to  Stratford,  and  to  his  house,  which  was  also 
his  place  of  business.  He  seemed  to  hurry  through  his  affairs 
with  speed ;  then  he  went  upstairs  and  looked  out  some  cloth- 
ing; he  took  down  a  pair  of  pistols  and  put  some  fresh  powder 
in  the  pans ;  and  made  a  few  other  preparations.  Next  he  Avent 
round  to  the  stable,  and  the  stout  little  Galloway  nag  whin- 
nied when  she  saw  him  at  the  door. 

"Well,  Maggie,  lass,"  said  he,  going  into  the  stall,  and 
patting  her  neck  and  stroking  down  her  knees,  "what  sayst 
thou  ?  Wouldst  like  a  jaunt  that  would  carry  thee  many  a 
mile  away  from  Stratford  town  ?  Nay,  but  if  you  knew  the  er- 
rand, I  warrant  me  you  would  be  as  eager  as  I !  What,  then — 
a  bargain,  lass  ?  By  my  life,  you  shall  have  many  a  long  day's 
rest  in  clover  when  this  sharp  work  is  done !" 


330  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

A  LOST  ARCADIA. 

It  was  on  this  same  morning  that  Judith  made  a  desperate 
effort  to  rouse  herself  from  the  prostration  into  which  she  had 
fallen.  All  through  that  long  darkness  and  despair  she  had 
been  wearily  and  vainly  asking  herself  whether  she  could  do 
nothing  to  retrieve  the  evil  she  had  wrought.  Her  good  name 
might  go  —  she  cai'ed  little  for  that  now;  but  was  there  no 
means  of  making  up  to  her  father  the  actual  money  he  had 
lost  ?  It  was  not  forgiveness  she  thought  of,  but  restitution. 
Forgiveness  was  not  to  be  dreamed  of ;  she  saw  before  her  al- 
ways that  angered  face  she  had  beheld  in  the  garden ;  and  her 
wish  was  to  hide  away  from  that,  and  be  seen  of  it  no  more- 
Then  there  was  another  thing :  if  she  were  to  be  permitted  to 
remain  at  the  cottage,  ought  she  not  to  show  herself  willing  to 
take  a  share  of  the  humblest  domestic  duties  ?  Might  not  the 
good  dame  begin  to  regard  her  as  but  a  useless  encumbrance  ? 
If  it  were  so  that  no  work  her  ten  fingers  could  accomplish 
would  ever  restore  to  her  father  what  he  had  lost  thi-ough  her 
folly,  at  least  it  might  win  her  grandmother's  forbearance  and 
patience.  And  so  it  was  on  the  first  occasion  of  her  head  ceas- 
ing to  ache  quite  so  badly  she  struggled  to  her  feet  (though  she 
was  so  languid  and  listless  and  weak  that  she  could  scarcely 
stand),  and  put  round  her  the  heavy  cloak  that  had  been  lying 
on  the  bed,  and  smoothed  her  hair  somewhat,  and  went  to  the 
door.  There  she  stood  for  a  minute  or  two  listening ;  for  she 
would  not  go  down  if  there  were  any  strangers  about. 

The  house  seemed  perfectly  still.  There  was  not  a  sound 
anywhere.  Then,  quite  suddenly,  she  heard  little  Cicely  be- 
gin to  sing  to  herself — but  in  snatches,  as  if  she  were  occupied 
with  other  matters — some  well-known  rhymes  to  an  equally 
familiar  tune — 

"5y  the  moon  we  sport  and  play ; 

With  the  nir/ht  begins  our  day  ; 
As  we  drink,  the  dew  doth  fall — 

Trip  it,  dainty  urchins  all! 


A  LOST  ARCADIA.  331 

Lightly  as  the  little  bee, 

Two  by  two,  and  three  by  three. 

And  about  go  we,  go  we''' 

— and  she  made  no  doubt  that  the  little  girl  was  alone  in  the 
kitchen.  Accordingly  she  went  down.  Cicely,  who  was  seat- 
ed near  the  window,  and  busily  engaged  in  plucking  a  fowl, 
uttered  a  slight  cry  when  she  entered,  and  started  up. 

"Dear  Mistress  Judith,"  she  said,  "can  I  do  aught  for  you  ? 
Will  you  sit  down  ?     Dear,  dear,  how  ill  you  do  look !" 

"  I  am  not  at  all  ill,  little  Cicely,"  said  Judith,  as  cheerfully 
as  she  could,  and  she  sat  down.  ' '  Give  me  the  fowl — I  will  do 
that  for  you ;  and  you  can  go  and  help  my  grandmother  in 
whatever  she  is  at." 

"Nay,  not  so,"  said  the  little  maid,  definitely  refusing. 
"  Why  should  you  ?" 

"But  I  wish  it,"  Judith  said.  "Do  not  vex  me  now.  Go 
and  seek  my  grandmother,  like  a  good  little  lass." 

The  little  maid  was  thus  driven  to  go ;  but  it  was  with  an- 
other purpose.  In  about  a  couple  of  minutes  she  had  returned, 
and  preceding  her  was  Judith's  grandmother. 

"What,  art  come  down,  wench  ?"  the  old  dame  said,  jmtting 
her  kindly  on  the  shoulder.  "That  be  so  far  well — ay,  ay,  I 
like  that,  now;  that  be  better  for  thee  than  lying  all  alone. 
But  what  would  you  with  the  little  maid's  work,  that  you  would 
take  it  out  of  her  hands  ?" 

"Why,  if  I  am  idle  and  do  nothing,  grandmother,  you  will 
be  for  turning  me  out  of  the  house,"  the  girl  answered,  looking 
up  with  a  strange  kind  of  smile. 

"Turn  thee  out  of  the  house?"  said  her  grandmother,  who 
had  just  caught  a  better  glimpse  of  the  wan  and  tired  face. 
"Ay,  that  will  I— and  now.  Come  thy  ways,  wench ;  'tis  time 
for  thee  to  be  in  the  fresh  air.  Cicely,  let  be  the  fowl  now. 
Put  some  more  wood  on  the  fire,  and  hang  on  the  pot — there's 
a  clever  lass.  And  thou,  grandchild,  come  thy  ways  with  me 
into  the  garden  ;  and  I  warrant  me,  when  thou  comest  back,  a 
cupful  of  barley  broth  will  do  thee  no  harm." 

Judith  obeyed,  though  she  would  fain  have  sat  still.  And 
then,  when  she  reached  the  front  door,  what  a  bewilderment  of 
light  and  color  met  her  eyes!  She  stood  as  one  dazed  for  a 
second  or  two.     The  odors  of  the  flowers  and  the  shrubs  were 


332  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

SO  strange,  moreover — pungent,  and  strange,  and  full  of  mem- 
ories. It  seemed  so  long  a  time  since  she  had  seen  this  won- 
derful glowing  world,  and  breathed  this  keen  air,  that  she 
paused  on  the  stone  flag  to  collect  her  senses,  as  it  were.  And 
then  a  kind  of  faintness  came  over  her,  and  perhaps  she  might 
have  sunk  to  the  ground  but  that  she  laid  hold  of  her  grand- 
mother's arm. 

"Ay,  ay,  come  thy  ways  and  sit  thee  down,  dearie,"  the  old 
dame  said,  imagining  that  the  girl  was  but  begging  for  a  little 
assistance  in  her  walking.  "I  be  main  glad  to  see  thee  out 
again.  I  liked  not  that  lying  there  alone — nay,  I  wur  feared 
of  it,  and  I  bade  Prudence  send  your  mother  and  Susan  to  see 
you—" 

"No,  no,  good  grandmother— no,  no,"  Judith  pleaded,  with 
all  the  effort  that  remained  to  her. 

"  But  yea,  yea,"  her  grandmother  said,  sharply.  "Foolish 
wench,  that  would  hide  away  from  them  that  can  best  aid  thee ! 
Ay,  and  knowest  thou  how  the  new  disease,  as  they  call  it, 
shows  itself  at  the  beginning?— why,  with  a  pinching  of  the 
face,  and  sharp  pains  in  the  head.  Wouldst  thou  have  me  let 
thee  lie  there,  and  perchance  go  from  bad  to  worse,  and  not 
send  for  them  —  ay,  and  for  Susan's  husband,  if  need  were? 
Nay,  but  let  not  that  frigbt  thee,  good  wench,"  she  said,  in 
a  gentler  way.  ' '  'Tis  none  so  bad  as  I  thought,  else  you  would 
not  be  venturing  down  the  stairs — nay,  nay,  there  be  no  hai^m 
done  as  yet,  I  warrant  me ;  'tis  a  breath  of  fresh  air  to  sharpen 
thee  into  a  hungry  fit  that  will  be  the  best  doctor  for  thee. 
Here,  sit  thee  down  and  rest,  now;  and  when  the  barley  broth 
be  warm  enough.  Cicely  shall  bring  thee  out  a  dish  of  it.  Nay, 
I  see  no  harm  done.  Keep  up  thy  heart,  lass;  thou  wert  ever 
a  brave  one :  ay,  what  was  there  ever  that  could  daunt  thee  ? — 
and  not  the  boldest  of  the  youtbs  but  was  afraid  of  thy  laugh 
and  thy  merry  tongue !  Heaven  save  us,  that  thou  should  take 
on  so !  And  if  you  would  sell  yourself  to  work  in  slavery  in 
the  Indies,  think  you  they  would  buy  a  poor  weak  trembling- 
creature  ?  Nay,  nay ;  we  will  have  to  fetch  back  the  roses  to 
your  cheeks  ere  you  make  for  that  bargain,  I  warrant  me!" 

They  were  now  seated  in  the  little  arbor.  On  entering,  Ju- 
dith had  cast  her  eyes  round  it  in  a  strange  and  half-frightened 
fashion;  and  now,  as  she  sat  there,  she  was  scarcely  listening 


A  LOST  ARCADIA.  333 

to  the  good-natured  garrulity  of  tlie  old  dame,  whicli  was  whol- 
ly raeaut  to  cheer  her  spirits. 

"  Grandmother,"  said  she,  in  a  low  voice,  "think  you  'twas 
really  he  that  took  away  with  him  my  father's  play?" 

"I  know  not  how  else  it  could  have  been  come  by,"  said  the 
grandmother;  "but  I  pray  you,  child,  heed  not  that  for  the 
present.  What  be  done  and  gone  can  not  be  helped — let  it 
pass.  There,  there,  now,  what  a  lack  of  memory  have  I,  that 
should  have  shown  thee  the  pretty  lace  cuffs  that  Thomas 
Quiney  left  for  thee — fit  for  a  queen,  they  be,  to  be  sure — ay, 
and  the  fine  lace  of  them,  and  the  silver  too.  He  hath  a  free 
hand,  he  hath ;  'tis  a  fair  thing  for  any  that  will  be  in  life- 
partnership  with  him ;  'twill  not  away — marry  'twill  not ;  'twill 
bide  in  his  nature — that  will  never  out  of  the  flesh  that's  bred 
in  the  bone,  as  they  say;  and  I  like  to  see  a  young  man  that 
be  none  of  the  miser  kind,  but  ready  forth  with  his  money 
where  'tis  to  please  them  he  hath  a  fancy  for.  A  brave  lad  he 
is,  too,  and  one  that  will  hold  his  own;  and  when  I  told  him 
you  were  pleased  that  his  business  went  forward  well,  why, 
saith  he,  as  quick  as  quick,  '  Said  she  that  ?' — and  if  my  old 
eyes  fail  me  not,  I  know  of  one  that  setteth  greater  share  by 
your  good  word  than  you  imagine,  wench." 

She  but  half  heard ;  she  was  recalling  all  that  had  happen- 
ed in  this  very  summer-house. 

"And  think  you,  grandmother,"  said  she,  slowly,  and  with 
absent  eyes,  "that  when  he  was  sitting  here  with  us,  and 
telling  us  all  about  the  court  doings,  and  about  my  father's 
friends  in  London,  and  when  he  was  so  grateful  to  us,  or  say- 
ing that  he  was  so,  for  our  receiving  of  him  here — think  you 
that  all  the  time  he  was  planning  to  steal  my  father's  play 
and  to  take  it  and  sell  it  in  London?  Grandmother,  can  ^ou 
think  it  possible  ?  Could  any  one  be  such  a  hypocrite  ?  I  know 
that  he  deceived  me  at  the  first;  but  'twas  only  a  jest,  and  he 
confessed  it  all,  and  professed  his  shame  that  he  had  so  done. 
But,  grandmother,  think  of  him — think  of  hoAv  he  used  to 
speak,  and  ever  so  modest  and  gentle:  is't  possible  that  all  the 
time  he  was  playing  the  thief,  and  looking  forward  to  the  get- 
ting away  to  London  to  sell  what  he  had  stolen  ?" 

"For  love's  sake,  sweetheart,  heed  that  man  no  more! — 'tis 
all  done  and  gone ;  there  can  come  no  good  of  vexing  thyself 

14 


334  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

about  it,"  her  grandmother  said.  "Be  he  villain  or  not,  'twill 
be  well  for  all  of  us  that  we  never  hear  his  name  more.  In 
good  sooth  I  am  as  much  to  blame  as  thou  thyself,  child,  for 
the  encouraging  liim  to  come  about,  and  listening  to  his  gossip 
— beshrew  me,  that  I  should  have  meddled  in  such  matters,  and 
not  bade  him  go  about  his  business !  But  'tis  all  past  and  gone 
now,  as  1  say — there  be  no  profit  in  vexing  thyself — " 

"  Past  and  gone,  grandmother!"  she  exclaimed,  and  yet  in  a 
listless  way.  ' '  Yes — but  what  remains  ?  Good  grandmother, 
perchance  you  did  not  hear  all  that  the  parson  said.  'Tis  past 
and  gone,  truly,  and  more  than  you  think." 

The  tone  in  which  she  uttered  these  woi'ds  somewhat  startled 
the  good  dame,  who  looked  at  her  anxiously.  And  then  she 
said: 

"Why,  now  I  warrant  me  the  barley  broth  Avill  be  hot 
enough  by  this  time.  I  will  go  fetch  thee  a  cupful,  wench. 
'Twill  put  warmth  in  thy  veins,  it  will — ay,  and  cheer  thy 
heart  too." 

"Trouble  not,  good  grandmother,"  she  said.  "I  would  as  lief 
go  back  to  my  room  now.     The  light  liui'ts  my  eyes  strangely. " 

"  Back  to  your  room? — that  shall  you  not !"  was  the  prompt 
answer,  but  not  meant  unkindly.  "You  shall  wait  here, 
wench,  till  I  bring  thee  that  will  put  some  color  in  thy  white 
face — ay,  and  some  of  Thomas  Quiney's  wine  withal;  and  if 
the  light  hurt  thee,  sit  further  back,  then :  of  a  truth  'tis  no 
wonder,  after  thou  hast  hid  thyself  like  a  dormouse  for  so  long." 

And  so  she  went  away  to  the  house.  But  she  was  scarcely 
gone  when  Judith — in  this  extreme  silence  that  the  rustling 
of  a  leaf  would  have  disturbed — heard  certain  voices;  and  list- 
ening more  intently,  she  made  sure  that  the  new-comers  must 
be  Susan  and  her  mother,  whom  Prudence  had  asked  to  walk 
over.  Instantly  she  got  up,  though  she  had  to  steady  herself 
for  a  moment  by  resting  her  liand  on  the  table;  and  then,  as 
quickly  as  she  could,  and  as  noiselessly,  she  stole  along  the  path 
to  the  cottage,  and  entered,  and  made  her  way  up  to  her  own 
room.  She  fancied  she  had  not  been  heard.  She  would  rath- 
er be  alone.  If  they  had  come  to  accuse  her,  what  had  she  to 
answer?  Why,  nothing:  they  might  say  of  her  what  they 
pleased  now;  it  was  all  deserved:  only  the  one  denunciation  of 
her  that  she  had  listened  to — the  one  she  had  heard  from  the 


A  LOST  ARCADIA.  335 

parson — seemed  like  the  ringing  of  lier  death-knell.  Surely 
there  was  no  need  to  repeat  that  ?  They  could  not  wish  to  re- 
peat it,  did  they  but  know  all  it  meant  to  her. 

Then  the  door  was  quietly  opened,  and  her  sister  appeared, 
bearing  in  one  hand  a  small  tray. 

"I  have  brought  you  some  food,  Judith,  and  a  little  wine, 
and  you  must  try  and  take  them,  sweetheart,"  said  she.  "  'Twas 
right  good  news  to  us  that  you  nad  come  down,  and  gone  into 
the  garden  for  a  space.  In  truth,  making  yourself  ill  will  not 
mend  matters;  and  Prudence  was  in  great  alarm." 

She  put  the  tray  on  a  chair,  for  there  w^as  no  table  in  the 
room;  but  Judith,  finding  that  her  sister  had  not  come  to  ac- 
cuse her,  but  was  in  this  gentle  mood,  said,  quickly  and  eagerly : 

'■  Oh,  Susan,  you  can  tell  me  all  that  I  would  so  fain  know ! 
You  must  have  heard,  for  my  father  speaks  to  you  of  all  his 
affairs ;  and  at  your  own  wedding  you  must  have  heard,  when 
all  these  things  were  arranged.  Tell  me,  Susan — I  shall  have 
a  marriage  portion,  shall  I  not  ? — and  how  much,  think  you  ? 
Perchance  not  so  large  as  yours,  for  you  are  the  elder,  and 
Doctor  Hall  was  ever  a  favorite  with  my  father.  But  I  shall 
have  a  marriage  portion,  Susan,  shall  I  not? — nay,  it  may  al- 
ready be  set  aside  for  me?" 

And  then  her  sister  glanced  somewhat  reproachfully  at  her. 

"I  wonder  you  should  be  thinking  of  such  things,  Judith," 
said  she. 

"Ah,  but  'tis  not  as  you  imagine,"  the  girl  said,  with  the 
same  pathetic  eagerness.  "  'Tis  in  this  wise,  now:  would  my 
father  take  it  in  a  measure  to  repay  him  for  the  ill  that  I  have 
done?  Would  it  make  up  the  loss,  Susan,  or  a  part  of  it? 
Would  he  take  it,  think  you  ?     Ah,  but  if  he  would  do  that !" 

' '  Why,  that  were  an  easy  way  out  of  the  trouble,  ass-uved- 
ly !"  her  sister  exclaimed.  "  To  take  the  marriage  portion  that 
is  set  aside  for  thee — and  if  I  mistake  not,  'tis  all  provided ;  ay, 
and  the  Rowington  copyhold,  Avhicli  will  fall  to  thee,  if  'tis 
not  thine  already — truly,  'twere  a  wise  thing  to  take  these  to 
make  good  this  loss,  and  then,  when  you  marry,  to  have  to  give 
you  your  marriage  portion  all  the  same !" 

"  Nay,  nay,  not  so,  Susan,"  her  sister  cried,  quickly.  "What 
said  you  ?  The  Rowington  coi)yhold  also  ?  and  perchance 
mine  already  ?   Susan,  would  it  make  good  the  loss  ?    Would  all 


336  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

taken  together  make  good  the  loss  ?  For,  as  Heaven  is  my  wit- 
ness, I  will  never  marry — nor  think  of  marrying — but  rejoice 
all  the  days  of  my  life,  if  my  father  would  but  take  these  to 
satisfy  him  of  the  injury  I  have  done  him.  Nay,  but  is't  pos- 
sible, Susan  ?  Will  he  do  that  for  me  ? — as  a  kindness  to  me  ? 
I  have  no  right  to  ask  for  such ;  but — but  if  only  he  knew ! — if 
only  he  knew !" 

The  tears  were  running  down  her  face ;  her  hands  were  clasp- 
ed in  abject  enti-eaty. 

"Sweetheart,  you  know  not  what  you  ask,"  her  sister  said, 
but  gently.  "When  you  marry,  your  marriage  portion  will 
have  to  be  in  accordance  with  our  position  in  the  town ;  my  fa- 
ther would  not  have  it  otherwise.  Were  you  to  surrender  that 
now,  would  he  let  one  of  his  daughters  go  forth  from  his  house 
as  a  beggar,  think  you  ?  Or  what  would  her  husband  say,  to 
be  so  treated  ?  You  might  be  willing  to  give  up  these,  but  my 
father  could  not,  and  your  husband  would  not." 

"  Susan,  Susan,  I  wish  for  no  marriage,"  she  cried;  "I  will 
stay  with  my  grandmotlier  here^  she  is  content  that  I  should 
bide  with  her;  and  if  my  father  will  take  these,  'twill  be  the 
joy  of  my  life ;  I  shall  wish  for  no  more,  and  New  Place  shall 
come  to  no  harm  by  me;  'tis  here  that  I  am  to  bide.  Think 
you  he  would  take  them,  Susan? — think  you  he  would  take 
them  ?"  she  pleaded ;  and  in  her  excitement  she  got  up  and 
tried  to  walk  about  a  little,  but  with  her  hands  still  clasped. 
"  If  one  were  to  send  to  London,  now — a  message — or  I  would 
walk  every  foot  of  the  way  did  I  but  think  he  would  do  this 
for  me — oh,  no !  no !  no !  I  durst  not — I  dui*st  never  see  him 
more ;  he  has  cast  me  off,  and — and  I  deserve  no  less !" 

Her  sister  went  to  her  and  took  her  by  the  hand. 

"Judith,  you  have  been  in  sore  trouble,  and  scarce  know 
what  you  say , "  she  said,  in  that  clear,  calm  way  of  hers.  ' '  But 
this  is  now  what  you  must  do.  Sit  down  and  take  some  of  this 
food.  As  I  hear,  you  have  scarce  tasted  anything  these  two 
days.  You  have  always  been  so  wild  and  wayward :  now  must 
you  listen  to  reason  and  suffer  guidance." 

She  made  her  sit  down.  The  girl  took  a  little  of  the  broth, 
some  of  the  spiced  bi'ead,  and  a  little  of  the  wine ;  but  it  was 
clear  that  she  was  forcing  herself  to  it.  Her  thoughts  were 
elsewhere.    And  scarcely  had  she  finished  this  make-believe  of 


A  LOST  ARCADIA,  337 

a  repast  when  she  turned  to  her  sister  and  said,  with  a  pathetic 
pleading  in  her  voice :  _ 

"And  is  it  not  possible,  oiisan  ?  Surely  I  can  do  something ! 
It  is  so  dreadful  to  think  of  my  father  imagining  that  I  have 
done  him  this  injury,  and  gone  on  the  same  way,  careless  of 
what  has  happened.  That  terrifies  me  at  night ! — oh,  if  you  but 
knew  what  it  is  in  the  darkness,  in  the  long  hours,  and  none  to 
call  to,  and  none  to  give  you  help;  and  to  think  tliat  these  are 
the  thoughts  he  has  of  me — that  it  was  al^  for  a  sweetheart  I 
did  it,  that  I  gave  away  his  writing  to  please  a  sweetheart,  and 
that  I  care  not  for  what  has  liappened,  but  would  do  the  like 
again  to-morrow!     It  is  so  dreadful  in  the  night!" 

"I  would  comfort  you  if  I  could,  Judith,"  said  her  sister, 
"but  I  fear  me  you  must  trust  to  wiser  counsel  than  mine. 
In  truth  I  know  not  whether  all  this  can  be  undone,  or  how 
my  father  regaixis  it  at  the  moment ;  for  at  the  time  of  the  writ- 
ing they  were  all  uncertain.  But  surely  now  you  would  do 
well  to  be  ruled  by  some  one  better  able  to  guide  you  than  any 
of  us  women-folk;  Master  Blaise  hath  been  most  kind  and  serv- 
iceable in  this,  as  in  all  other  matters,  and  hath  written  to 
your  father  in  answer  to  liLs  letter,  so  that  we  have  had  trust 
and  assui-ance  in  his  direction.  And  you  also — why  should 
you  not  seek  his  aid  and  counsel?" 

At  the  mere  mention  of  the  i)arson''s  uame,  Judith  shivered 
instinctively,  she  scarce  knew  why. 

"Judith,"  her  sister  continued,  regarding  her  watchfully, 
"  to-morrow,  as  I  understand,  Master  Blaise  is  coming  over 
here  to  see  you." 

"  May  not  I  be  spared  that  ?  He  hath  ali'eady  brought  his 
message,"  the  girl  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Nay,  he  comes'  but  in  kindness — or  moi-e  than  kindness,  if 
I  guess  aright.  Bethink  you,  Judith,"  she  said,  "  'tis  not  only 
the  loss  of  the  money — or  great  or  small  I  know  not — that 
hath  distressed  my  father.  There  was  more  than  that.  Nay, 
do  not  think  I  am  come  to  reproach  you;  but  will  it  not  be 
ever  thus  so  long  as  you  will  be  ruled  by  none,  but  must  always 
go  your  own  way?  There  was  more  than  merely  concerned 
money  aflFairs  in  my  father's  letter,  as  doubtless  Master  Blaise 
hath  told  you  ;  and  then,  think  of  it,  Judith,  how  'twill  be  when 
the  bruit  of  the  story  comes  down  to  Stratford." 


338  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARK. 

"I  care  not,"  was  the  perfectly  calm  answer.  "That  is 
for  me  to  bear.  Can  Master  Blai^  tell  me  how  I  may  restore 
to  my  father  this  that  he  hath  lost?  Then  his  visit  might  be 
more  welcome,  Susan." 

"  Why  will  you  hai'den  your  heart  so?"  the  elder  sister  said, 
with  some  touch  of  entreaty  in  her  tone.  "Nay,  think  of  it, 
Judith !  Here  is  an  answer  to  all.  If  you  but  listen  to  him, 
and  favor  him,  you  will  have  one  always  with  you  as  a  sure 
guide  and  counsellor;  and  who  then  may  dare  say  a  word 
against  you?" 

"Then  he  comes  to  save  my  good  name  ?"  the  girl  said,  with 
a  curious  change  of  manner.  "Nay,  I  will  give  him  no  such 
tarnished  jn'i^." 

And  here  it  occurred  to  the  elder  sister,  who  was  sufficiently 
shrewd  and  observant,  that  her  intercession  did  not  seem  to  be 
producing  good  results;  and  she  considered  it  better  that  the 
parson  should  speak  for  himself.  Indeed,  she  hoped  she  had 
done  no  mischief;  for  this  that  she  now  vaguely  suggested  had 
for  long  been  the  dream  and  desire  of  both  her  mother  and 
herself;  and  at  this  moment,  if  ever,  there  was  a  chance  of  Ju- 
dith's being  obedient  and  compliant.  Not  only  did  she  forth- 
with change  the  subject,  but  also  she  managed  to  conquer  the 
intense  longing  that  possessed  her  to  learn  something  further 
about  the  young  man  who  (as  she  imagined)  had  for  a  time 
captured  Judith's  fancies.  She  gave  her  sister  what  news  there 
was  in  the  town.  She  besought  her  to  take  care  of  herself, 
and  to  go  out  as  much  as  possible,  for  that  she  was  looking 
far  from  well.  And  finally,  when  the  girl  confessed  that  she 
was  fain  to  lie  down  for  a  space  (having  slept  so  little  during 
these  two  nights),  she  put  some  things  over  her,  and  quietly 
left,  hoping  that  she  might  soon  get  to  sleep. 

Judith  did  not  rest  long,  however.  The  question  whether  the 
sacrifice  of  her  marriage  portion  might  not  do  something  to- 
ward retrieving  the  disaster  she  had  caused  Avas  still  harassing 
her  mind;  and  then,  again,  there  was  the  iDrospect  of  the  par- 
son coming  on  the  morrow.  By-and-by,  when  she  was  certain 
that  her  mother  and  sister  were  gone,  she  went  down-stairs,  and 
began  to  help  in  doing  this  or  the  other  little  thing  about  the 
house.  Her  grandmother  was  out-of-doors,  and  so  did  not 
know  to  interfere,  though  the  small  maid-servant  remonstrated 


A  LOST  ARCADIA.  339 

as  best  she  might.  Luckily,  however,  nature  was  a  more  im- 
perative monitress;  and  again  and  again  the  girl  had  to  sit 
down  from  sheer  physical  weakness. 

But  there  came  over  a  visitor  in  the  afternoon  who  restored 
to  her  something  of  her  old  spirit.  It  was  little  Willie  Hart, 
who,  havingtimidly  tapped  at  the  open  door  without,  came  along 
the  passage,  and  entered  the  dusky  chamber  where  she  was. 

"Ah,  sweetheart,"  said  she  (but  with  a  kind  of  sudden  sob 
in  her  throat),  "have  you  come  to  see  me  ?" 

"I  heard  that  you  were  not  well,  cousin, "said  he,  and  he  re- 
garded her  with  troubled  and  anxious  eyes  as  she  stooped  to 
kiss  him. 

"  Nay,  I  am  well  enough,"  said  she,  with  as  much  cheerful- 
ness as  she  could  muster.  ' '  Fret  not  yourself  about  that.  What 
a  studious  scholar  you  are,  Cousin  Willie,  that  must  needs  bring 
your  book  with  you  !  Were  I  not  so  ignorant  myself,  I  should 
hear  you  your  tasks ;  but  you  would  but  laugh  at  me — " 

"'Tis  no  task-book,  Judith,"  said  he,  diffidently.  "'Twas 
Prudence  who  lent  it  to  me." 

And  then  he  hesitated,  through  shyness. 

"  Why,  you  know,  Judith,"  he  said,  "you  have  spoken  to  mo 
many  a  time  about  Sir  Philip  Sidney ;  and  I  was  asking  this  one 
and  the  other  at  times;  and  Prudence  said  she  would  show  me 
a  book  he  had  written,  that  belongs  to  her  brother.  And  then  to- 
day, when  I  went  to  her,  she  bade  me  bring  the  book  to  you,  and 
to  read  to  you,  for  tliat  you  were  not  well,  and  might  be  pleased 
to  hear  it,  she  not  being  able  to  come  over  till  the  morrow." 

"In  truth,  now,  that  was  well  thought  of  and  friendly,  "said 
she;  and  she  put  her  hand  in  a  kindly  fashion  on  his  shoulder. 
"And  you  have  come  all  the  way  over  to  read  to  me— see  you 
how  good  a  thing  it  is  to  be  wise  and  instructed!  Well,  then, 
we  will  go  and  sit  by  the  door,  that  you  may  have  mox'e  of 
light;  and  if  my  grandmother  catch  us  at  such  idleness,  you 
shall  have  to  defend  me— you  shall  have  to  defend  me,  sweet- 
lieart— for  you  are  the  man  of  us  two,  and  I  must  be  shielded." 

So  they  went  to  the  door,  and  sat  down  on  the  step,  the  va- 
rious-colored garden  and  the  trees  and  the  wide  heavens  all 
shining  before  them. 

"And  what  is  the  tale.  Cousin  Willie?"  said  she,  quite  plea- 
santly (for  indeed  she  was  glad  to  see  the  boy,  and  to  chat  with 


340  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

one  who  had  no  I'eproaches  for  her,  who  knew  nothing  against 
her,  but  was  ever  her  true  lover  and  slave) .  ' '  Nay,  if  it  be  by  Sir 
Philip  Sidney, 'twill  be  of  gallant  and  noble  knights  assuredly." 

"I  know  not,  Cousin  Judith,"  said  he;  "I  but  looked  at  the 
beginning  as  I  came  thi-ough  the  fields.  And  this  is  how  it  goes." 

He  opened  the  book,  and  began  to  read : 

"It  was  in  the  time  that  the  Earth  begins  to  put  on  her 
new  apparel  against  the  approach  of  her  lover,  and  that  the 
sun,  running  a  most  even  course,  becomes  an  indifferent  arbiter 
between  the  night  and  the  day,  when  the  hopeless  shepberd 
Strephon  was  come  to  the  sands  which  lie  against  the  island  of 
Cithera,  where,  viewing  the  place  with  a  heavy  kind  of  delight, 
and  sometimes  casting  his  eyes  to  the  isleward,  he  called  his 
friendly  rival  the  pastor  Claius  unto  him ;  and,  setting  first 
down  in  his  darkened  countenance  a  doleful  copy  of  what  he 
would  speak,  '  O  my  Claius,'  said  he—" 

Thus  he  went  on ;  and  as  he  read,  her  face  grew  more  and 
more  wistful.  It  was  a  far-off  land  that  she  heard  of;  and 
beautiful  it  was;  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  been  dwelling 
in  some  such  land,  careless  and  all  unknowing. 

"  The  third  day  after,"  she  vaguely  heard  him  say,  "in  the 
time  that  the  morning  did  strew  roses  and  violets  in  the  heaven- 
ly floor  against  the  coming  of  the  sun,  the  nightingales,  striv- 
ing one  with  the  other  which  could  in  most  dainty  variety  re- 
count their  wrong-caused  sorrow,  made  them  put  off  their 
sleep ;  and,  rising  from  under  a  tree,  which  that  night  had  been 
their  pavilion,  they  went  on  their  journey,  which  by-and-by 
welcomed  Musidorus'  eyes  with  delightful  prospects.  There 
were  hills  which  garnished  their  proud  heights  with  stately 
trees;  humble  valleys  whose  base  estate  seemed  comforted  with 
the  refreshing  of  silver  rivers;  meadows  enamelled  with  all 
sorts  of  eye-pleasing  flowers;  thickets  wliich,  being-lined  with 
most  pleasant  shade,  were  witnessed  so  to  by  the  cheerful  dis- 
position of  many  well-tuned  birds;  each  pasture  stored  with 
sheep,  feeding  with  sober  security,  while  the  pretty  lambs,  with 
bleating  oratory,  craved  the  dams'  comfort:  here  a  shepherd's 
boy  piping,  as  though  he  should  never  be  old ;  thei-e  a  young 
shepherdess  knitting,  and  withal  singing:  and  it  seemed  that 
her  voice  comforted  her  hands  to  work,  and  her  hands  kept 
time  to  her  voice-music." 


A  LOST  ARCADIA.  341 

Surely  she  had  herself  been  living  in  some  such  land  of 
pleasant  delights,  without  a  thought  that  ever  it  would  end  for 
her,  but  that  each  following  day  would  be  as  full  of  mirth  and 
laughter  as  its  predecessor.  She  scarcely  listened  to  the  little 
lad  now.  She  was  looking  back  over  the  years.  So  rare  and 
bright  and  full  of  light  and  color  were  they  —  and  always  a 
kind  of  music  in  them,  and  laughter  at  the  sad  eyes  of  lovers. 
She  had  never  known  how  happy  she  had  been.  It  was  all 
distant  now — the  idle  flower-gathering  in  the  early  spring- 
time; the  afternoon  walking  in  the  meadows,  she  and  Pru- 
dence together  (with  the  young  lads  regarding  them  askance) ; 
the  open  casements  on  the  moon-lit  nights,  to  hear  the  madri- 
gal-singing of  the  youths  going  home ;  or  the  fair  and,  joyous 
mornings  that  she  was  allowed  to  ride  away,  in  the  direction 
of  Oxford,  to  meet  her  father  and  his  companions  coming  in  to 
Stratford  town.  And  now,  when  next  he  should  come,  to  all 
of  them,  and  all  of  them  welcoming  him — even  neighbors  and 
half-sti-angers— and  he  laughing  to  them  all,  and  getting  off 
his  horse,  and  calling  for  a  cup  of  wine  as  he  strode  into  the 
house,  where  should  she  be  ?  Not  Avith  all  of  these,  not  lauirh- 
ing  and  listening  to  the  merry  stoi'ies  of  the  journey,  but  away 
by  herself,  hiding  herself,  as  it  were,  and  tliinking,  alone. 

"  Dear  Judith,  but  why  are  you  crying  ?''  said  the  little  lad, 
as  he  chanced  to  look  up;  and  his  face  was  of  an  instant  and 
troubled  anxiety. 

"Why,  'tis  a  fair  land — oh,  indeed,  a  fair  land!"  said  she, 
with  an  effort  at  regarding  the  book,  and  pretending  to  be 
wholly  interested  in  it.  "Nay,  I  would  hear  more  of  Musi- 
dorus,  sweetheart,  and  of  that  pretty  country.  I  pray  you  con- 
tinue the  reading  —  continue  the  reading,  sweetheart  Willie. 
Nay,  I  never  heard  of  a  fairer  country,  I  assure  thee,  in  all  the 
wide  world !" 

14* 


343  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

A  RESOLVE. 

Then  that  niglit,  as  she  lay  awake  in  the  dark,  her  incessant 
imaginings  shaped  themselves  toward  one  end.  This  passion 
of  grief  she  knew  to  be  unavailing  and  fruitless.  Something 
she  would  try  to  do,  if  but  to  give  evidence  of  her  contrition ; 
for  how  could  she  bear  that  her  father  should  think  of  her  as 
one  having  done  him  this  harm  and  still  going  on  light-hearted 
and  unconcerned  ?  The  parson  was  coming  over  on  the  mor- 
row. And  if  she  were  to  put  away  her  maidenly  pride  (and 
other  vague  dreams  that  she  had  sometimes  dreamed),  and  take 
it  that  her  consent  would  re-establish  her  in  the  eyes  of  those 
who  were  now  regarding  her  askance,  and  make  her  peace  with 
her  own  household  ?  And  if  the  surrender  of  her  mai-riage 
portion  and  her  interest  in  the  Rowington  copyhold  (whatever 
it  might  be)  were  in  a  measure  to  mitigate  her  father's  loss? 
It  was  the  only  thing  she  could  think  of.  And  if  at  times  she 
looked  forward  with  a  kind  of  shudder  (for  in  the  night-time 
all  prospects  wear  a  darker  hue)  to  her  existence  as  the  parson's 
wife,  again  there  came  to  her  the  reflection  that  it  was  not  for 
her  to  repine.  Some  sacrifice  was  due  from  her.  And  could 
she  not  be  as  resolute  as  the  daughter  of  the  Gileadite  ?  Often- 
times she  had  heard  the  words  read  out  in  the  still  afternoon : 
"  Now  when  Iphtah  came  to  Mizpeh  unto  his  house,  behold  his 
daughter  came  out  to  meet  him  with  timbrels  and  dances: 
which  was  his  only  child;  he  had  none  other  son  nor  daugh- 
ter. And  when  he  saw  her  he  rent  his  clothes,  and  said,  Alas, 
my  daughter !  thou  has  brought  me  low,  and  art  of  them  that 
trouble  me."  The  Jewish  maiden  had  done  no  ill,  and  yet 
wgis  brave  to  suffer:  why  should  she  repine  at  any  sacrifice 
demanded  of  her  to  atone  for  her  own  wrong-doing  ?  What 
else  was  there  ?  She  hoped  that  Susan  and  her  mother  would 
be  pleased  now,  and  that  her  father  and  his  friends  in  London 
would  not  have  any  serious  loss  to  regret.  There  was  but 
the  one  way,  she  said  to  herself  again  and  again.      She  was 


A  RESOLVE.  343 

almost  anxious  foi-  the  parson  to  come  over,  to  see  if  he  would 
approve. 

With  the  daylight  her  determination  became  still  more  clear; 
and  also  she  saw  more  plainly  the  difficulties  before  her.  For 
it  could  not  be  deemed  a  very  seemly  and  maidenly  thing  that 
she,  on  being  asked  to  become  a  bride  (and  she  had  no  doubt  that 
was  his  errand),  should  begin  to  speak  of  her  marriage  portion. 
But  would  he  understand  ?  Would  he  help  her  over  her  em- 
barrassment ?  Nay,  she  could  not  but  reflect,  here  was  an  op- 
portunity for  his  showing  himself  generous  and  large-minded. 
He  had  always  professed,  or  at  least  intimated,  that  his  wish 
to  have  her  for  wife  was  based  mostly  on  his  care  for  herself 
and  his  regard  for  the  general  good  of  the  i^ious  community  to 
which  he  belouged.  She  was  to  be  a  helpmeet  for  one  labor- 
ing in  the  Lord's  vineyard;  she  was  to  be  of  service  in  the 
church;  she  was  to  secure  for  herself  a  constant  and  loving 
direction  and  guidance.  And  now,  if  he  wished  to  prove  all 
this — if  he  wished  to  show  himself  so  noble  and  disinterested  as 
to  win  for  himself  her  life-long  gratitude — what  if  he  were  to 
take  over  all  her  marriage  portion,  as  that  might  be  arranged, 
and  forthwith  and  chivalrously  hand  it  back  again,  so  that  her 
grievous  fault  should  so  far  be  condoned?  If  the  girl  had 
been  in  her  usual  condition  of  health  and  spirits,  it  is  probable 
that  she  would  have  regarded  this  question  with  a  trifle  of  skep- 
ticism (for  she  was  about  as  shrewd  in  such  matters  as  Susan 
herself) — nay,  it  is  just  probable  that  she  might  have  experi- 
enced  a  malicious  joy  in  putting  him  to  the  proof.  But  she 
was  in  despair ;  her  nerves  were  gone,  through  continual  wake- 
fulness and  mental  torture;  this  was  the  only  direction  in 
which  she  saw  light,  and  she  regarded  it,  not  with  hei*  ordi- 
nary faculty  of  judgment,  but  with  a  kind  of  pathetic  hope. 

Master  Blaise  arrived  in  the  course  of  the  morning.  His 
reception  was  not  auspicious;  for  the  old  dame  met  him  at  the 
gate,  and  made  more  than  a  show  of  barring  the  way. 

"  Indeed,  good  sir,"  said  she,  firmly,  "the  wench  be  far  from 
well  now,  and  I  would  have  her  left  alone." 

He  answered  that  his  ei*rand  was  of  some  importance,  and 
that  he  must  crave  a  few  minutes'  interview.  Both  her  mo- 
ther and  sister,  he  said,  were  aware  he  was  coming  over  to  see 
her,  and  had  made  no  objection. 


344  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

' '  No,  no,  perchance  not,"  the  grandmother  said,  though  with- 
out budging  an  inch,  ' '  but  she  be  under  my  care  now,  and  I  will 
have  no  harm  befall  her — " 

"  Harm,  good  Mistress  Hathaway  ?"  said  he. 

"Well,  she  be  none  so  strong  as  she  were,  and — and  per- 
chance there  hath  been  overmuch  lecturing  of  the  poor  lass. 
Nay,  I  doubt  not  'twas  meant  in  kindness,  but  there  hath  been 
overmuch  of  it,  as  I  reckon;  and  what  I  say  is,  if  the  wench 
have  done  amiss,  let  those  that  have  the  right  to  complain 
come  to  her.  Nay,  'twas  kindness,  good  sir ;  'twas  well  meant, 
I  doubt  not;  and  'tis  your  calling  belike  to  give  counsel  and 
reproof ;  I  say  naught  against  that ;  but  I  am  of  a  mind  to  have 
my  grandchild  left  alone  at  i^resent." 

"  If  you  refuse  me,  good  Mistress  Hathaway,"  said  he,  quite 
courteously  and  calmly,  "  there  is  no  more  to  be  said.  But  I 
imagine  that  her  mother  and  sister  will  be  surprised.  And  as 
for  the  maiden  herself — go  you  by  her  wishes  ?" 

"  Nay,  not  I,"  was  the  bold  answer.  "  I  know  better  than 
all  of  them  together.  For  to  speak  plain  with  you,  good  mas- 
ter parson,  your  preaching  must  have  been  oversharp  when 
last  you  were  within  here,  and  was  like  to  have  brought  the 
wench  to  death's  door  thereafter — marry,  she  be  none  so  far 
recovered  as  to  risk  any  further  of  such  treatment.  Perchance 
you  meant  no  harm ;  but  she  is  proud  and  high-spirited,  and, 
by  your  leave,  good  sir,  we  will  see  her  a  little  stronger  and 
better  set  up  ere  she  have  any  more  of  the  discipline  of  the 
church  bestowed  on  her." 

It  was  well  that  Judith  appeared  at  this  juncture;  for  the 
tone  of  the  old  dame's  voice  was  growing  more  and  more  tart. 

"Grandmother,"  said  she,  "I  would  speak  with  Master 
Blaise." 

"Get thee  within-doors  at  once,  I  tell  thee,  wench !"  was  the 
peremptory  rejoinder. 

"No,  good  grandmother,  so  please  you,"  Judith  said,  "I 
must  speak  with  him.  There  is  much  of  importance  that  I 
have  to  say  to  him.     Good  sir,  will  you  step  into  the  garden  ?" 

The  old  dame  withdrew,  sulky  and  grumbling,  and  evident- 
ly inclined  to  remain  within  ear-shot,  lest  she  should  deem  it 
necessary  to  interfere.  Judith  preceded  Master  Blaise  to  the 
door  of  tbe  cottage,  and  asked  the  little  maid  to  bring  out  a 


A  RESOLVE.  345 

couple  of  chairs.  As  she  sat  down,  he  could  not  but  observe 
how  wan  and  worn  lier  face  was,  and  how  listless  she  was  in 
manner;  but  he  made  no  comment  on  that:  he  only  remarked 
that  her  grandmother  seemed  in  no  friendly  mood  this  morn- 
ing, and  that  only  the  fact  that  his  mission  was  known  to  Su- 
san and  her  mother  had  caused  him  to  persist. 

It  was  clear  that  this  untoward  reception  had  disconcerted 
him  somewhat ;  and  it  was  some  little  time  before  he  could  re- 
cover that  air  of  mild  authority  with  which  he  was  accustomed 
to  convey  his  counsels.  At  first  he  confined  himself  to  telling 
Judith  what  he  had  done  on  behalf  of  her  mother  and  Susan 
— in  obedience  to  their  wishes;  but  by-and-by  he  came  to  her- 
self, and  her  own  situation ;  and  he  hoped  that  this  experience 
through  which  she  had  passed,  though  it  might  have  caused 
her  bitter  distress  for  the  time,  would  eventually  make  for  good. 
If  the  past  could  not  be  recalled,  at  least  iAie  future  might  be 
made  safe.  Indeed,  one  or  two  phrases  he  used  sounded  as  if 
they  had  done  some  previous  service;  perhaps  he  had  consult- 
ed with  Mistress  Hall  ere  making  this  appeal ;  but  in  any  case 
Judith  was  not  listening  so  particularly  as  to  think  of  that — 
she  seemed  to  know  beforehand  what  he  had  to  say. 

To  tell  tlie  truth,  he  was  himself  a  little  surprised  at  her  tacit 
acquiescence.  He  had  always  had  to  argue  with  Judith ;  and 
man  V  a  time  he  had  found  that  her  subtle  feminine  wit  was  ca- 
pable  of  extricating  herself  from  what  he  considered  a  defense- 
less position.  But  now  she  sat  almost  silent.  She  seemed  to 
agree  to  everything.  There  was  not  a  trace  left  of  the  old  au- 
dacious self-reliance,  nor  yet  of  those  saucy  rejoinders  which 
were  only  veiled  by  her  professed  respect  for  his  cloth.  She 
was  at  his  mercy. 

And  so,  growing  bolder,  he  put  in  his  own  personal  claim. 
He  said  little  that  he  had  not  said,  or  hinted,  on  previous  occa- 
sions ;  but  now  all  the  circumstances  were  changed ;  this  heavy 
misfortune  that  had  befallen  her  was  but  another  and  all  too 
cogent  reason  why  she  should  accept  his  offer  of  shelter  and 
aid  and  counsel,  seeing  into  what  pitfalls  her  own  unguided 
steps  were  like  to  lead  lier. 

"  I  speak  the  words  of  truth  and  soberness,"  said  he,  as  he 
sat  and  calmly  regarded  her  downcast  face,  "  and  make  no  ap- 
peal to  the  fooli.sh  fancies  of  a  young  and  giddy-headed  girl,  for 


346  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

that  you  ai'e  no  longer,  Judith.  The  yeai*s  are  going  by. 
There  must  come  a  time  in  life  when  the  enjoyment  of  the 
passing  moment  is  not  all  in  all;  when  one  must  look  to  the 
future,  and  make  provision  for  sickness  and  old  age.  Death 
strikes  here  and  there;  friends  fall  away;  what  a  sad  thing  it 
were  to  find  one's  self  alone,  the  dark  clouds  of  life  thickening 
over,  and  none  by  to  help  and  cheer !  Then  your  mother  and 
sister,  Judith — " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  said,  almost  in  despair — "I  know  'twould 
please  them." 

And  tben  she  reflected  that  this  was  scarcely  the  manner  in 
which  she  should  receive  his  offer,  that  was  put  before  her  so 
plainly  and  with  so  much  calm  sincerity. 

"I  pray  you,  good  sir,"  said  she,  in  a  kind  of  languid  way, 
' '  forgive  me  if  I  answer  you  not  as  frankly  as  might  be.  I 
have  been  ill ;  my  head  aches  now ;  perchance  I  have  not  fol- 
lowed all  you  said.  But  I  understand  it — I  understand  it;  and 
in  all  you  say  thei-e  is  naught  but  good  intention." 

"Then  it  is  yes,  Judith ?"  he  exclaimed,  and  for  the  first  time 
there  was  a  little  brightness  of  ardor — almost  of  triumph — in 
this  clearly  conceived  and  argued  wooing. 

"  It  would  please  my  mother  and  sister,"  she  repeated,  slow- 
ly. "They  are  afraid  of  some  story  coming  from  London 
about — about  what  is  passed.  This  would  be  an  answer,  would 
it'not  ?" 

"Why,  yes,"  he  said,  confidently,  for  he  saw  that  she  was 
yielding  (and  his  own  susceptibilities  were  not  likely  to  be 
wounded  in  that  direction).  "Think  you  we  should  heed  any 
tavern  scurrility?  I  trow  not!  There  would  be  the  answer 
plain  and  clear — if  you  were  my  wife,  Judith." 

"They  would  be  pleased,"  again  she  said,  and  her  eyes  were 
absent.  And  then  she  added:  "I  pray  you  pardon  me,  good 
sir,  if  I  speak  of  that  which  you  may  deem  out  of  place ;  but — 
but  if  you  knew — how  I  have  been  striving  to  think  of  some 
means  of  repairing  the  wrong  I  have  done  my  father,  you  would 
not  wonder  that  I  should  be  anxious,  and  perchance  indiscreet. 
You  know  of  the  loss  I  have  caused  him  and  his  companions. 
How  could  I  ever  make  that  good  with  the  work  of  my  own 
hands  ?  That  is  not  possible;  and  yet  when  I  think  of  how  he 
hath  toiled  for  all  of  us,  late  and  early,  as  it  were— why,  good 


A  RESOLVE.  347 

sir,  I  have  myself  been  bold  enough  to  chide  him,  or  to  wish 
that  I  were  a  man,  to  ride  forth  in  the  morning-  in  his  stead 
and  look  after  the  land :  and  then  that  liis  own  daughter  should 
be  the  means  of  taking  from  him  what  he  hath  earned  so  hard- 
ly— that  I  should  never  forget;  'twould  be  on  my  mind  year 
after  year,  even  if  he  were  himself  to  try  to  forget  it." 

She  i)aused  for  a  second ;  the  mere  effort  of  speaking  seemed 
to  fatigue  her. 

"There  is  but  the  one  means,  as  I  can  think,  of  showing  him 
my  humble  sorrow  for  what  hath  been  done— of  making  him 
some  restitution.  I  know  not  what  my  marriage  portion  may 
be — but  'twill  be  something — and  Susan  saith  there  is  a  part  of 
the  manor  of  Rowington,  also,  that  would  fall  to  me.  Now, 
see  you,  good  Master  Blaise,  if  I  were  to  give  these  over  to  my 
father  in  part  quittance  of  this  injury,  or  if  belike — my — my 
—husband  Avould  do  that — out  of  generosity  and  nobleness — 
would  not  my  father  be  less  aggrieved  ?" 

She  had  spoken  rather  quickly  and  breathlessly  (to  get  over 
her  embarrassment),  and  now  she  regarded  him  with  a  strange 
anxiety,  for  so  much  depended  on  his  answer!  Would  he  un- 
derstand her  motives?  Would  he  pardon  her  bluntness? 
Would  he  join  her  in  this  scheme  of  restitution  ? 

He  hesitated  only  for  a  moment. 

' '  Dear  Judith, "  he  said,  with  perfect  equanimity, ' '  such  mat- 
ters are  solely  within  the  province  of  men,  and  not  at  the  dispo- 
sition of  women,  Avho  know  less  of  the  affairs  of  the  world. 
Whatever  arrangements  your  father  may  have  made  in  respect 
of  your  marriage  portion — truly  I  have  made  no  inquiry  in 
that  direction — he  will  have  made  with  due  regard  to  his  own 
circumstances,  and  with  regard  to  the  family,  and  to  your  fu- 
ture. Would  he  be  willing  to  upset  these  in  order  to  please  a 
girlish  fancy?  Why,  in  all  positions  in  life  pecuniary  losses 
must  happen,  and  a  man  takes  an  account  of  these;  and  is  he 
likely  to  recover  himself  at  the  expense  of  his  own  daughter  ?" 

"  Nay,  but  if  she  be  willing !  If  she  would  give  all  that  she 
hath,  good  sir!"  she  cried,  quickly. 

"  'T would  be  but  taking  it  from  one  pocket  to  put  it  in  the 
other,"  said  he,  in  his  patient  and  forbearing  way.  "I  say 
not,  if  a  man  were  like  to  become  banki-upt,  that  his  family 
miglit  not  forego  their  expectations  in  oi-dor  to  save  him;  but 


348  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

your  father  is  one  in  good  position.     Think  you  that  the  loss 
is  so  great  to  him?     In  truth,  it  can  not  he." 

The  eagerness  fell  away  from  her  face.  She  saw  too  clearly 
that  he  could  not  understand  her  at  all.  She  did  not  reckon 
her  father's  loss  in  proportion  to  his  wealth— in  truth  she  could 
not  form  the  faintest  notion  of  what  that  loss  might  be:  all  her 
thought  was  of  her  winning  back  (in  some  remote  day,  if  that 
■were  still  possible  to  her)  to  her  father's  forgiveness,  and  the 
regarding  of  his  face  as  no  longer  in  dread  wrath  against  her. 

"Why,"  said  he,  seeing  that  she  sat  silent  and  distraught 
(for  all  the  hope  had  gone  out  of  her),  "in  every  profession  and 
station  in  life  a  man  must  have  here  or  there  a  loss,  as  I  say ; 
but  would  he  rob  his  family  to  make  that  good  ?  Surely  not. 
Of  what  avail  might  that  be  ?  'Tis  for  them  that  he  is  work- 
ing; 'tis  not  for  himself;  why  should  he  take  from  them  to 
build  up  a  property  which  must  in  due  course  revert  and  become 
theirs  ?  I  pray  you  put  such  fancies  out  of  your  head,  Judith, 
Women  are  not  accustomed  to  deal  with  such  matters;  'tis  bet- 
ter to  have  them  settled  in  the  ordinary  fashion.  Were  I  you 
I  would  leave  it  in  your  father's  hands." 

"And  have  him  think  of  me  as  he  is  thinking  now!"  she 
said,  in  a  kind  of  wild  way.  "Ah,  good  sir,  you  know  not ! — 
you  know  not !  Every  day  that  passes  is  but  the  deeper  mis- 
ery; for— for  he  will  be  hardened  in  the  belief— 'twill  be  fixed 
in  his  mind  forever— that  his  own  daughter  did  him  this 
wrong,  and  went  on  lightly,  not  heeding,  perchance  to  seek 
another  sweetheart.  This  he  is  thinking  now ;  and  I — what 
can  I  do  ? — being  so  far  away,  and  none  to  help !" 

"In  truth,  dear  Judith,"  said  he,  "you  make  too  much  of 
your  share  in  what  happened.  'Tis  not  to  you  your  father 
should  look  for  reparation  of  his  loss,  but  to  the  scoundrel  Avho 
carried  the  play  to  London.  What  punishment  would  it  be  for 
him,  or  what  gain  to  your  father,  that  your  father  should  upset 
the  arrangements  he  has  made  for  the  establishment  and  surety 
of  his  own  family?  Nay,  I  pray  you  put  aside  such  a  strange 
fancy,  dear  heai't,  and  let  such  things  take  tlieir  natural  course. " 

"In  no  wise!  in  no  wise!"  she  exclaimed,  almost  in  despair. 
"In  truth,  I  can  not.  'T would  kill  me  were  nothing  to  be 
done  to  appease  my  father's  anger;  and  I  thought  that  if  he 
were  to  learn  that  you  had  sought  me  in  marriage,  and— and 


A  RESOLVE.  349 

agreed  that  such  restitution  as  I  can  make  should  be  made 
forthwith — or  afterward,  as  might  be  decided — but  only  that  he 
should  know  now  that  I  give  up  everything  he  had  intended 
for  me — then  I  should  have  greater  peace  of  mind." 

"  Indeed,  Judith,"  said  he,  somewhat  coldly,  "  I  could  be  no 
party  to  any  such  foolish  freak — nay,  not  even  in  intention, 
whatever  your  father  might  say  to  it.  The  very  neighbors 
would  think  I  was  bereft  of  my  senses.  And  'twould  be  an  ill 
beginning  of  our  life  together — in  which  there  must  ever  be 
authority  and  guidance  as  well  as  dutiful  obedience — if  I  w^ere 
to  yield  to  what  every  one  must  perceive  to  be  an  idle  and  fan- 
tastic wish.  I  pray  you  consult  your  own  sober  judgment:  at 
present  you  are  ailing  and  perturbed;  rest  you  awhile  until 
these  matters  have  calmed  somewhat,  and  you  will  see  them 
in  their  true  light." 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  hurriedly  and  absently — "no,  no,  good 
sir ;  you  know  not  what  you  ask.  Rest  ?  Nay,  one  way  or  the 
other,  this  must  be  done,  and  forthwith.  I  know  not  what  he 
may  have  intended  for  me,  but  be  it  large  or  small,  'tis  all 
that  I  have  to  give  him — I  can  do  no  more  than  that ;  and  then, 
then  there  may  be  some  thoughts  of  rest." 

She  spoke  as  if  she  were  scarcely  aware  of  the  good  parson's 
presence;  and  in  truth,  though  he  was  not  one  to  allow  any 
wounded  self-love  to  mar  his  interests,  he  could  not  conceal 
from  himself  that  she  was  considering  the  proposal  he  had  put 
before  her  mainly,  if  not  wholly,  with  a  view  to  the  possible 
settlement  of  these  troubles  and  the  appeasing  of  her  friends. 
Whether,  in  other  circumstances,  he  might  not  have  calmly 
overlooked  this  slight  need  not  now  be  regai'ded ;  in  the  pre- 
sent circumstances — that  is  to  say,  after  her  announced  deter- 
mination to  forego  every  penny  of  her  marriage  portion — he 
did  take  notice  of  it,  and  with  some  sharpness  of  tone,  as  if  he 
were  truly  offended. 

"Indeed,  you  pay  me  no  compliment,  Judith,"  said  he.  "I 
come  to  offer  you  the  shelter  of  an  honest  man's  home,  an 
honorable  station  as  his  wife,  a  life-long  guidance  and  pi-otec- 
tion ;  and  what  is  your  answer  ? — that  perchance  you  may  make 
use  of  such  an  offer  to  please  your  friends,  and  to  pay  back  to 
your  father  what  you  foolishly  think  you  owe  him.  If  these 
be  the  only  purposes  you  have  in  view — and  you  seem  to  think 


350  «  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

of  none  other— 'twould  be  a  soriy  forecast  for  the  future,  as  I 
take  it.  At  the  very  beginning  an  act  of  madness!  Nay,  I 
could  be  no  party  to  any  such  thing.  If  you  refuse  to  be 
guided  by  me  in  great  matters,  how  could  I  expect  you  to  be 
guided  in  small  ?'' 

These  words,  uttered  in  his  clear  and  precise  and  definite 
manner,  she  but  vaguely  understood  (for  her  head  troubled  her 
sorely,  and  she  was  tired  and  anxious  to  be  at  rest)  to  be  a 
withdi-awal  of  his  proposal ;  but  that  was  enough ;  and  perhaps 
she  even  experienced  some  slight  sense  of  relief.  As  for  his 
rebuking  of  her,  she  heeded  not  that. 

"As  you  will,  sir— as  you  will,"  she  said,  listlessly;  and  she 
rose  from  her  chair. 

And  he  rose  too.  Perhaps  he  was  truly  offended ;  perhaps 
he  only  appeared  to  be;  but  at  all  events  he  bade  her  farewell 
in  a  cold  and  formal  manner,  and  as  if  it  were  he  who  had 
brought  this  interview  to  an  end,  and  that  for  good. 

"What  said  he,  wench,  what  said  he?"  her  grandmother 
asked  (who  had  been  pretending  all  the  time  to  be  gathering 
peas,  and  now  came  forward).  "  Nay,  I  caught  but  little— a 
word  here  or  there— and  yet  methinks  'tis  a  brave  way  of  woo- 
ing they  have  nowadays,  that  would  question  a  maid  about  her 
marriage  portion.  Heaven's  mercy!  did  ever  any  hear  the 
like  ?  'Twas  not  so  when  I  was  young— nay,  a  maid  would 
have  bade  him  go  hang  that  brought  her  such  a  tale.  Oh,  the 
good  parson !— his  thoughts  be  not  all  bent  on  heaven,  I  war- 
rant me!  Ay,  and  Avhat  said  he?  And  what  saidst  thou, 
wench  ?  Truly  you  be  in  no  fit  state  to  answer  him ;  were  you 
well  enough,  and  in  your  usual  spirits,  the  good  man  would 
have  his  answer— ay,  as  sharp  as  need  be.  But  I  will  say  no 
more;  Master  Quiney  hath  avengeful  spirit,  and  perchance  he 
hath  set  me  too  much  against  the  good  man ;  but  as  for  thy- 
self, lass,  there  be  little  cause  for  talking  further  of  thy  offenses, 
if  'tis  thy  marriage  portion  the  parson  be  after,  now!" 

"Good  grandmother,  give  me  your  arm,"  Judith  said,  in  a 
strange  way.  "My  head  is  so  strange  and  giddy.  I  know 
not  what  I  have  said  to  him— I  scarce  can  recollect  it :  if  I  have 
offended,  bid  him  forgive  me ;  but— but  I  would  have  him  re- 
main away." 

"As  I  am  a  living  woman,"  said  the  old  dame  (forgetting 


A  RESOLVE.  .  351 

her  resolve'to  speak  smooth  words),  "he  s^iall  not  come  with- 
in the  door,  nor  yet  within  that  gate,  while  you  bide  with  me 
and  would  have  him  kept  without !  What,  then  ?  More  talk 
of  chastenings  ?  Marry,  now,  Thomas  Quiney  shall  hear  of 
this — that  shall  he — by  my  life  he  shall !" 

"No,  no,  no,  good  grandmother;  pray  you  blame  no  one," 
the  girl  said;  and  she  was  trembling  somewhat.  "Tis  I  that 
liave  done  all  the  harm  to  every  one.  But  I  know  not  what  I 
said.  I — I  would  fain  lie  down,  grandmother,  if  you  will  give 
me  your  arm  so  far;  'tis  so  strangely  cold — I  understand  it  not 
— and  I  forget  what  was't  he  said  to  me,  but  I  trust  I  offended 
him  not — " 

"  Nay,  but  what  is  it,  then,  my  dearie  ?"  the  old  woman  said, 
taking  both  the  girl's  hands  in  hei^s.  "What  is  it  that  you 
should  fret  about  ?  Nay,  fret  not,  fret  not,  good  wench ;  the 
parson  be  well  away,  and  there  let  him  bide.  And  would  you 
lie  down  ?— well,  come,  then  ;  but  sure  you  shake  as  if  'twere 
winter.  Come,  lass— nay,  fret  not ;  we  will  keep  the  parson 
away,  I  warrant,  if  'tis  that  that  vexes  thee !" 

"No,  grandmother,  'tis  not  so,"  the  girl  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
"'T\.as  down  by  the  river,  as  I  think;  'twas  chilly  there — I 
have  folt  it  ever  since  from  time  to  time — but  'twill  pass  away 
when  I  am  lain  down  and  become  warm  ajrain." 

"Heaven  grant  it  be  no  worse !"  the  old  dame  said  to  herself, 
as  she  shrewdly  regarded  the  girl;  but  of  course  her  outward 
talk,  as  she  took  her  within-doors,  was  ostensibly  cheerful. 
"  Come  thy  ways,  then,  sweeting,  and  we  shall  soon  make  thee 
warm  enough.  Ay,  ay,  and  Prudence  be  coming  over  this 
afternoon,  as  I  hear;  and  no  doubt  Thomas  Quiney  too;  and 
thou  must  get  thyself  dressed  prettily,  and  have  supper  with 
us  all,  though  'tis  no  treat  to  offer  to  a  man  of  his  own  wine. 
Nay,  I  warrant  me  he  will  think  naught  of  that,  so  thou  be 
there,  with  a  pleasant  look  for  him;  he  Avill  want  nor  wine 
nor  aught  else  if  he  have  but  that,  and  a  friendly  word  from 
thee,  as  I  reckon ;  ay,  and  thou  shalt  put  on  the  lace  cuffs,  now, 
to  do  him  fair  service  for  his  gift  to  tliee — that  shalt  thou,  and 
why  not  ?— I  swear  to  thee,  my  brave  lass,  they  be  fit  for  a 
queen !" 

And  .she  would  comfort  her  and  help  her  (just  as  if  this 
granddaughter  of  hers,  that  always  was  so  briglit  and  gay  and 


352  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

radiant,  so  self-willed  and  self-reliant,  with  nothing  but  laugh- 
ter for  the  sad  eyes  of  the  stricken  youths,  was  now  but  a  weak 
and  frightened  child,  that  had  to  be  guarded  and  coaxed  and 
caressed),  and  would  talk  as  if  all  her  thinking  was  of  that  visit 
in  the  afternoon ;  but  the  only  answer  was : 

"Will  you  send  for  Prudence,  grandmother  ?  Oh,  grand- 
mother, my  head  aches  so !     I  scarce  know  what  I  said." 

Swiftly  and  seci-etly  the  old  dame  sent  across  to  the  town ; 
and  not  to  Prudence  only,  but  also  (for  she  was  grown  anxious) 
to  Mistress  Hall,  to  say  that  if  her  husband  were  like  to  return 
soon  to  Stratford,  he  might  come  over  and  see  Judith,  who  was 
far  from  well.  As  for  Prudence,  a  word  was  sufficient  to  bring 
her;  she  was  thei-e  straightway. 

She  found  Judith  very  much  as  she  had  left  her,  but  some- 
what more  restless  and  feverish  perhaps,  and  then  again  hope- 
lessly weak  and  languid,  and  always  with  those  racking  pains 
in  the  head.  She  said  it  was  nothing — it  would  soon  pass 
away;  it  was  but  a  chill  she  had  caught  in  sitting  on  the  river- 
bank  :  would  not  Prudence  now  go  back  to  her  duties  and  her 
affairs  in  the  house  ? 

"Judith,"  said  her  friend,  leaning  over  her  and  speaking 
low,  "I  have  that  to  tell  thee  will  comfort  thee,  methinks." 

"Nay,  I  can  not  listen  to  it  now,"  was  the  answer — and  it 
was  a  moan  almost.  ' '  Dear  mouse,  do  not  trouble  about  me ; 
but  my  head  is  so  bad  that  I— that  I  care  not  now.  And  the 
parson  is  gone  away  thinking  that  I  have  wronged  him  also. 
'Tis  ever  the  same  now—    Oh,  sweetheart,  my  head !  my  head !" 

"But  listen,  Judith,"  the  other  pleaded.       "Nay,  but  you 
must  know  wliat  your  friends  are  ready  to  do  for  you — this 
surely  will  make  thee  well,  sweetheart.     Think  of  it,  now:  do 
you  know  that  Quiney  is  gone  to  see  your  father  ?" 

"To  my  father?"  she  repeated,  and  she  tried  to  raise  her 
head  somewhat,  so  that  her  eyes  might  read  her  friend's  face. 

"I  am  almost  sure  of  it,  dear  heai^t,"  Prudence  said,  taking 
her  hot  hand  in  hers.  ' '  Nay,  he  would  have  naught  said  of  it. 
None  of  his  family  know  whither  he  is  gone;  and  I  but  guess. 
But  this  is  the  manner  of  it,  dear  Judith — that  he  and  I  were 
talking,  and  sorely  vexed  he  was  that  your  father  should  be 
told  a  wrong  story  concerning  you — ay,  and  sorry  to  see  you 
so  shaken,  Judith,  and  distressed ;  and  said  he,  '  What  if  I  were 


A  RESOLVE.  353 

to  get  a  message  to  her  from  her  father— that  he  was  in  no  such 
mood  of  anger,  and  had  not  heard  the  story  aright,  and  that  he 
was  well  disposed  to  her,  and  grieved  to  hear  she  had  taken  it 
so  much  to  heart — would  not  that  comfort  her  ?'  he  said.  And 
I  answered  that  assuredly  it  would,  and  even  moi'e,  perchance, 
than  he  thought  of;  and  I  gathered  from  him  that  he  would 
write  to  some  one  in  London  to  go  and  see  your  father  and  pray 
him  to  send  you  assurance  of  that  kind.  But  now — nay,  I  am 
certain  of  it,  dear  Judith — I  am  certain  that  he  himself  is  gone 
all  the  way  to  London  to  bring  thee  back  that  comfort ;  and  will 
not  that  cheer  thee,  now,  sweetheart?" 

"  He  is  doing  all  that  for  me  ?"  the  girl  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
and  absently. 

"Ah,  but  you  must  be  well  and  cheerful,  good  mouse,  to  give 
him  greeting  when  he  comes  back,"  said  Prudence,  striving  to 
raise  her  spiints  somewhat.  ' '  Have  I  not  read  to  thee  many  a 
time  how  great  kings  were  wont  to  reward  the  messengers  that 
brought  them  good  news  ? — a  gold  chain  round  their  neck,  or 
lands,  perchance.  And  will  you  have  no  word  of  welcome  for 
him  ?  Will  you  not  meet  him  with  a  glad  face  ?  Why,  think 
of  it,  now — a  journey  to  London,  and  the  perils  and  troubles 
by  the  way,  and  all  done  to  please  thee !  Nay,  he  would  say 
naught  of  it  to  any  one,  lest  they  might  wonder  at  his  doing 
so  much  for  thee,  belike;  but  when  he  comes  back  'twere  a 
sorry  thing  that  you  should  not  give  him  a  good  and  gracious 
welcome." 

Judith  lay  silent  and  thinking  for  a  while ;  and  then  she  said, 
but  as  if  the  mere  effort  to  speak  were  too  much  for  her: 

"Whatever  happens,  dear  Prudence — nay,  in  trutli,  I  think 
I  am  very  ill — tell  him  this,  that  he  did  me  wrong:  he  thought 
I  had  gone  to  meet  the  parson  that  Sunday  morning  in  the 
church-yard.  'Twas  not  so — tell  him  it  was  not  so;  'twas  but 
a  chance,  dear  heart;  I  could  not  help  it." 

'"Judith,  Judith,"  her  friend  said,  "these  be  things  for  thine 
own  telling.  Nay,  you  shall  say  all  that  to  himself;  and  you 
must  speak  him  fair — ay,  and  give  him  good  welcome  and 
thanks  that  hath  done  so  much  for  thee." 

Judith  put  her  head  down  on  the  pillow  again,  languidly; 
but  presently  Prudence  heard  her  laugh  to  herself  in  a  strango 
way. 


S54  JUDITH   SHAKESPEARE. 

"Last  night,"  she  said,  "'twas  so  wonderful,  dear  Prue.  I 
thought  I  was  going  about  in  a  strange  country,  looking  for 
my  little  brother  Hamnet,  and  I  knew  not  whether  he  would 
have  any  i^emembrance  of  me.  Should  I  have  to  tell  him  my 
name,  I  kept  asking  myself.  And  'Judith,  Judith,'  I  said  to 
him  when  I  found  him ;  but  he  scarce  knew ;  I  thought  he  had 
forgotten  me;  'tis  so  long  ago  now.  '  Judith,  Judith,'  I  said; 
and  he  looked  up,  and  he  was  so  strangely  like  little  Willie 
Hart  that  I  wondered  whether  it  was  Hamnet  or  no." 

But  Prudence  was  alarmed  by  these  wanderings,  and  did  her 
best  to  hush  them.  And  then,  when  at  length  the  girl  lay  silent 
and  still.  Prudence  stole  down-stairs  again  and  bade  the  grand- 
mother go  to  Judith's  room,  for  that  she  must  at  once  hurry 
over  to  Stratford  to  speak  with  Susan  Hall. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

ARRIVALS. 


Some  few  mornings  after  that,  two  travellers  were  standing 
in  the  spacious  archway  of  the  inn  at  Shipston,  chatting  to 
each  other,  and  occasionally  glancing  toward  the  stable-yard, 
as  if  they  were  expecting  their  horses  to  be  brought  round. 

"The  wench  will  thank  thee  for  this  service  done  her,"  the 
elder  of  the  two  said;  and  he  regarded  the  younger  man  in  a 
shrewd  and  not  unkindly  way. 

"Nay,  I  am  none  well  iDleased  with  the  issue  of  it  all,"  the 
young  man  said,  moodily. 

' '  What,  then  ?"  his  companion  said.  ' '  Can  nothing  be  done 
and  finished  but  with  the  breaking  of  heads  ?  Must  that  ever 
crown  the  work  ?  Mercy  on  us!— how  many  would  you  have 
slaughtered  ?  Now  'tis  the  parson  that  must  be  thrown  into 
the  Avon ;  again  it  is  Gentleman  Jack  you  would  have  us  seek 
out  for  you ;  and  then  it  is  his  friend — whose  very  name  we 
know  not — that  you  would  pursue  through  the  dens  and  stews 
of  London  town.  A  hopeful  task,  truly,  for  a  Stratford  youth  ! 
What  know  you  of  London,  man  ?  And  to  pursue  one  whose 
very  name  you  know  not — and  all  for  the  further  breaking  of 
heads,  that  never  did  any  good  anywhei*e  in  the  world." 


ARRIVALS.  355 

"You  are  right,  sir,"  the  younger  man  said,  with  some  bit- 
terness. "I  can  brag  and  bluster  as  well  as  any.  But  I  see 
not  that  much  comes  of  it.  'Tis  easy  to  break  the  heads  of 
scoundrels — in  talk.     Their  bones  are  none  the  worse." 

' '  And  better  so, "  the  other  said,  gravely.  ' '  I  would  have  no 
blood  shed.  What,  man,  are  you  still  fretting  that  I  would  not 
leave  you  behind  in  London  ?" 

"Nay,  sir,  altogether  I  like  not  the  issue  of  it,"  he  said,  but 
respectfully  enougli.  "I  shall  be  told,  I  doubt  not,  that  I 
might  have  minded  my  own  business.  They  will  blame  me  for 
bringing  you  all  this  way,  and  hindering  your  affairs." 

"Heaven  bless  us!"  said  the  other,  "may  not  a  man  come 
to  see  his  daughter  without  asking  leave  of  the  neighbors  ?" 

"  'Tis  as  like  as  not  that  she  herself  will  be  the  first  to  chide 
me,"  the  younger  man  answered.  "  A  message  to  her  was  all 
I  asked  of  you,  sir.     I  dreamt  not  of  hindering  your  affairs  so." 

"Nay,  nay,"  said  Judith's  father,  good-naturedly.  "I  can 
make  the  occasion  serve  me  well.  Trouble  not  about  that, 
friend  Quiney.  If  we  can  cheer  up  the  wench  and  put  her 
mind  at  rest — that  will  be  a  sufficient  end  of  the  journey;  and 
we  will  have  no  bi'oken  heads  withal,  so  please  you.  And  if 
she  herself  should  have  put  aside  these  idle  fears,  and  become 
her  usual  self  again,  why,  then,  there  is  no  harm  done  eithei*. 
1  mind  me  that  some  of  them  wondered  that  I  should  ride 
down  to  see  my  little  Hamnet  when  he  lay  sick ;  for  'twas  no 
serious  illness  that  time,  as  it  turned  out;  but  wliat  does  that 
make  for  now?  Now,  I  tell  you,  I  am  right  glad  I  went  to  see 
the  little  lad ;  it  cheered  him  to  be  made  so  much  of;  and  such 
small  services  or  kindnesses  are  pleasant  things  for  ourselves 
to  think  of  when  those  that  are  dearest  to  us  are  no  longer  with 
us.  So  cease  your  fretting,  friend  Quiney.  For  the  hindering 
of  my  affairs  I  take  it  that  I  am  answerable  to  my.self,  and 
not  to  the  good  gossips  of  Stratford  town.  And  if  'tis  merely 
to  say  a  kind  word  to  the  lass — if  that  is  all  that  need  be  done 
— well,  there  are  many  things  that  are  of  different  value  to  dif- 
ferent people;  and  the  wench  and  I  understand  each  other 
shrewdly  well." 

The  liorses  were  now  brought  round ;  but,  ere  they  mounted, 
Judith's  father  said,  again  regarding  the  youth  in  that  ob- 
servant way, 


356  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

"Nay,  I  see  how  it  is  with  you,  good  lad;  you  are  anxious 
as  to  how  Judith  may  take  this  service  you  liave  done  her — 
is't  not  so  ?" 

"  Perchance  she  may  be  angry  that  I  called  you  away,  sir," 
he  said. 

"Have  no  fear.  'Twas  none  of  thy  doing.  'Twas  but  a 
whim  of  mine  own— nay,  there  be  other  and  many  reasons  for 
my  coming,  that  need  not  to  be  explained  to  her.  What,  must 
I  make  apology  to  my  own  daughter  ?  She  is  not  the  guardian 
of  Stratford  town  ?  I  am  no  rogue;  she  is  no  constable.  May 
not  I  enter  ?  Nay,  nay,  have  no  fear,  friend  Quiney ;  when 
that  she  comes  to  understand  the  heavy  errand  you  undertook 
for  her,  she  will  give  you  her  thanks,  or  I  know  nothing  of  her. 
Her  thanks? — mai*ry,  yes!" 

He  looked  at  the  young  man  again, 

"But  let  there  be  no  broken  heads,  good  friend,  I  charge 
you,"  said  he,  as  he  put  his  foot  in  the  stirrup.  ' '  If  the  parson 
have  been  overzealous,  we  will  set  all  matters  straight,  without 
hurt  or  harm  to  any  son  of  Adam." 

And  now  as  they  rode  on  together  the  younger  man's  face 
seemed  more  confident  and  satisfied;  and  he  was  silent  for  the 
most  part.  Of  course  he  would  himself  be  the  bearer  of  the 
news;  it  was  but  natural  that  he  should  claim  as  much.  And 
as  Judith's  father  intended  to  go  first  to  New  Place,  Quiney  in- 
timated to  him  that  he  would  rather  not  ride  through  the  town ; 
in  fact,  he  wanted  to  get  straightway  (and  unobserved,  if  possi- 
ble) to  Shottery,  to  see  how  matters  were  there. 

When  he  arrived  at  the  little  hamlet,  Willie  Hart  was  in 
the  garden,  and  instantly  came  down  to  the  gate  to  meet  him. 
He  asked  no  questions  of  the  boy,  but  begged  of  him  to  hold 
the  bridle  of  his  horse  for  a  few  minutes;  then  he  went  into 
the  house. 

Just  within  the  threshold  he  met  Judith's  sister. 

"Ah,"  said  he,  quickly,  and  even  joyously,  "I  have  brought 
good  news.  Where  is  Judith  ?  May  I  see  her  ?  I  want  to 
tell  her  that  her  father  is  come,  and  will  see  her  presently." 

And  then  something  in  the  scared  face  that  was  regarding 
him  struck  him  with  a  sudden  terror. 

"What  is  it  ?"  he  said,  with  his  own  face  become  about  as 
pale  as  hers. 


ARRIVALS.  357 

"Judith  is  very  ill,"  was  the  answer. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  eagerly,  "and  that  she  was  when  I  left. 
But  now  that  her  father  is  come,  'twill  be  all  different — 'twill 
be  all  set  right  now.  And  you  will  tell  her,  then,  if  I  may 
not  ?  Nay,  but  may  not  I  see  her  for  a  moment — but  for  a 
moment — to  say  how  her  father  is  come  all  the  way  to  see  her 
— ay,  and  hath  a  stoi'e  of  trinkets  for  her — and  is  come  to  com- 
fort her  into  assurance  that  all  will  go  well  ?  Why,  will  not 
such  a  message  cheer  her  ?" 

"Good  Master  Quiney,"  Susan  said,  with  tears  welling  into 
her  eyes,  ' '  if  you  were  to  see  her,  she  would  not  know  you ;  she 
knows  no  one ;  she  knows  not  that  she  is  ill ;  but  speaks  of  her- 
self as  some  other — " 

"But  her  father!"  he  exclaimed,  in  dismay,  "will  she  not 
know  him  ?  Will  she  not  understand  ?  Nay,  surely  'tis  not 
yet  too  late !" 

But  here  Doctor  Hall  appeared;  and  when  he  was  told  that 
Judith's  father  was  come  to  the  town  and  would  shortly  be  at 
the  cottage,  he  merely  said  that  perchance  his  presence  might 
soothe  her  somewhat,  or  even  lead  her  delirious  wanderings 
into  a  gentler  channel,  but  that  she  would  almost  certainly  be 
unable  to  recognize  him.  Nor  was  the  fever  yet  at  its  height, 
he  said,  and  they  could  do  but  little  for  her.  They  could  but 
wait  and  hope.  As  for  Quiney,  he  did  not  ask  to  be  admitted 
to  tbe  room.  He  seemed  stunned.  He  sat  down  in  the  kitchen 
— heeding  no  one  — and  vaguely  wondering  whether  any 
lengthening  of  the  stages  of  the  journey  would  have  brought 
them  in  better  time.  Nay,  had  he  not  wasted  precious  hours 
in  London  in  vainly  seeking  to  find  himself  face  to  face  with 
Jack  Orridge  ? 

Prudence  chanced  to  come  down-stairs.  As  she  entered  the 
kitchen  he  forgot  to  give  her  any  greeting;  lie  only  said, 
quickly: 

"  Think  you  she  will  not  understand  that  her  father  is  come 
to  see  her  ?  Surely  she  must  understand  so  much,  Prudence ! 
You  will  tell  her,  will  you  not  ? — and  if  she  sees  him  standing 
before  her  ?" 

"I  know  not — I  am  afraid,"  said  Prudence,  anxiously.  "Per- 
chance it  may  frighten  her  the  moi*e;  for  ever  she  says  that 
slie  sees  him;  and  always  with  an  angry  face  toward  her;  and 

15 


358  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

she  is  for  hiding  herself  away  from  him,  and  even  talking  of  the 
river.  Good  lack!  'tis  pitiful  that  she  should  be  so  struck 
down,  and  almost  at  death's  door,  and  all  we  can  do  of  so  little 
avail !" 

"Prudence,"  said  he,  starting  to  his  feet,  "there  is  her  father 
just  come;  I  hear  him;  now  take  him  to  her,  and  you  will  see 
— you  will  see.  I  may  not  go ;  a  strange  face  might  frighten 
her;  but  I  know  she  will  recognize  him,  and  understand;  and 
he  will  tell  her  to  have  no  longer  any  fear  of  him — " 

Prudence  hurried  away  to  meet  Judith's  father,  who  was  in 
the  doorway,  getting  such  information  as  was  possible  from 
the  doctor.  And  then  they  all  of  them  (all  but  Quiney)  stole 
gently  upstairs ;  and  they  stood  at  the  door  in  absolute  silence, 
while  Judith's  father  went  forward  to  the  bed — so  quietly  that 
the  girl  did  not  seem  to  notice  his  approach. 

The  grandmother  was  there,  sitting  by  the  bedside,  aiid  speak- 
ing to  her  in  a  low  voice. 

"Hush  thee  now,  sweeting,  hush  thee  now,"  she  was  saying, 
and  she  patted  her  hand.  "Nay,  I  know  'twas  ill  done;  'tis 
quite  right  what  tliou  sayst;  they  treated  her  not  well— and  the 
poor  wench  anxious  to  please  them  all.  But  have  no  fear  for 
her;  nay,  trouble  not  thy  head  with  thoughts  of  her:  she  be 
safe  at  home  again,  I  trust.  Hush  thee  now,  sweeting;  'twill 
go  well  with  her,  I  doubt  not.  I  swear  to  thee  her  father  be  no 
longer  angry  with  the  wench ;  'twill  go  well  with  her,  and  well. 
Have  no  fear." 

The  girl  looked  at  her  steadily,  and  yet  with  a  strange  light 
in  her  eyes,  as  if  she  saw  distant  things  before  her,  or  was  seek- 
ing to  recall  them. 

"There  was  Susan,  too,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "that  sang 
so  sweet— oh,  in  the  church  it  was  so  sweet  to  hear  her ! — but 
when  it  was  '  The  rose  is  from  my  garden  gone,'  she  would  not 
sing  that — though  that  was  ever  in  her  sister's  mind  after  she 
went  away  down  to  the  river-side;  I  can  not  think  why  they 
would  not  sing  it  to  her — perchance  the  parson  thought  'twas 
wicked  :  I  know  not  now.  And  when  she  herself  would  try  it 
with  the  lute,  nothing  would  come  right,  all  went  wrong  with 
her — all  went  wrong ;  and  her  father  came  angry  and  terrible 
to  seek  her— and  'twas  the  parson  that  would  drag  her  forth— 
the  bushes  were  not  thick  enough.     Good  grandam,  why  should 


ARRIVALS.  359 

the  bushes  in  the  garden  be  so  thin  that  the  terrible  eyes  peered 
through  them,  and  she  tried  to  hide,  and  could  not?" 

"Nay,  I  tell  thee,  sweetheart,"  said  the  grandmother,  whis- 
pering to  her,  "that  the  poor  wench  you  speak  of  went  home, 
and  all  were  well  content  with  her,  and  her  father  was  right 
pleased — indeed,  indeed,  'twas  so." 

"Poor  Judith!  poor  Judith!"  the  girl  murmured  to  herself, 
and  then  she  laughed  slightly.  ' '  She  was  ever  the  stupid  one ; 
naught  Would  go  right  with  her;  ay,  and  evil-tempered  she 
was,  too,  for  Quiney  would  ride  all  the  way  to  London  for  her, 
and  she  thanked  him  with  never  a  word  or  a  look — never  a  word 
or  a  look — and  he  going  all  the  way  to  please  her.  Poor 
wench,  all  went  wrong  with  her  somehow ;  but  they  might  have 
let  her  go,  she  was  so  anxious  to  hide;  and  then  to  drag  her 
forth  from  under  the  bushes.  Grandam,  it  was  cruelly  done  of 
them,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"Ay,  ay,  but  hush  thee  now,  dearie,"  her  grandmother  said, 
as  she  put  a  cool  cloth  on  the  burning  forehead.  "  'Tis  quite 
well  now  with  the  poor  wench  you  speak  of." 

Her  father  drew  nearer,  and  took  her  hand  quietly. 

"  Judith,"  said  he,  "poor  lass,  I  am  come  to  see  you." 

For  an  instant  there  was  a  startled  look  of  fear  in  her  ey&s; 
but  that  passed,  and  she  regarded  him  at  first  witli  a  kind  of 
smiling  wonder,  and  thereafter  witli  a  contented  satisfaction,  as 
though  his  presence  was  familiar.  Nay,  she  turned  her  atten- 
tion altogether  toward  him  now,  and  addressed  him — not  in 
any  heart-broken  way,  but  cheerfully,  and  as  if  he  had  been 
listening  to  her  all  along.  It  was  clear  that  she  did  not  in  the 
least  know  who  he  was. 

"There,  now,  lass,"  said  he,  "  knowest  thou  that  Quiney  and 
I  have  ridden  all  the  way  from  London  to  see  thee?— and  thou 
must  lie  still  and  rest,  and  get  well  again,  ere  we  can  carry 
thee  out  into  the  garden." 

She  was  looking  at  him  with  those  strangely  brilliant  eyes. 

"  But  not  into  the  garden,"  she  said,  in  a  vacant  kind  of  way. 
"That  is  all  gone  away  now — gone  away.  'Twas  long  ago — 
when  iwor  Judith  used  to  go  into  the  garden — and  right  fair 
and  beautiful  it  was — ay,  and  her  father  would  praise  her  hair, 
and  the  color  of  it" — until  he  grew  angry,  and  drove  her  away 
far  from  him  — and  then — and  then  —she  wandered  down  to  the 


360  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

river — and  always  Susan's  song  was  in  her  mind — or  the  other 
one,  that  was  near  as  sad  as  that,  about  the  western  wind — was 
it  not  ?     How  went  it,  now  ? 

'  \Vesfe)-7i  7vind,  ivhen  tvill  you  blow  f 

Nay,  I  can  not  recall  it — 'tis  gone  out  of  my  head,  grandam, 
and  there  is  only  fire  there — and  fire — and  fire — 

'  Western  ivind,  when  will  you  blow  P 

it  went ;  and  then  about  the  rain  next — what  was  it  ? 

'  So  weary  falls  the  rain  /' 

Ay,  ay,  that  was  it,  now— I  remember  Susan  singing  it: 

'  Western  wind,  when  will  you  blow? 
So  weary  falls  the  rain  ! 
0  if  my  love  were  in  my  arms, 
Or  I  in  )7iy  bed  again  P  " 

And  here  she  turned  away  from  them  and  fell  a-crying,  and 
hid  from  them,  as  it  were,  covering  her  face  with  both  her 
hands. 

"Grandmother,  grandmother,"  they  could  hear  her  say 
through  her  sobbing,  "there  was  but  the  one  rose  in  my  gar- 
den, and  that  is  gone  now — they  have  robbed  me  of  that — and 
what  cared  I  for  aught  else  ?  And  Quiney  is  gone  too,  without 
a  woi'd  or  a  look ;  and  ere  he  be  come  back  —  well,  I  shall  be 
away  by  then— he  will  have  no  need  to  quarrel  with  me  and 
think  ill  of  me  that  I  chanced  to  meet  the  parson.  'Tis  all  over 
now,  grandmother,  and  done  witb,  and  you  will  let  me  bide 
with  you  for  just  a  little  while  longer — a  little  wbile,  grand- 
mother ;  'tis  no  great  matter  for  so  little  a  while,  though  I  can 
not  help  you  as  I  would ;  but  Cicely  is  a  good  lass,  and  'twill 
be  for  a  little  while,  for  last  night  again  I  found  Hamnet — ay, 
ay,  he  hath  all  things  in  readiness  now^all  in  readiness." 
And  then  she  uttered  a  slight  cry,  or  moan  rather.  "Grand- 
mother, grandmother,  why  do  you  not  keep  the  j)arson  away 
from  me  ? — you  said  that  you  would." 

"Hush,  hush,  child,"  tbe  grandmother  said,  bending  over 
her  and  speaking  softly  and  closely.  "You  are  overconcern- 
ed  about  the  jjoor  lass  that  was  treated  so  ill.  Take  heart  now ; 
I^tell  thee  all  is  going  well  with  her;  her  father  hath  taken 
her  home  again ;  and  she  is  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long.     Nay, 


ARRIVALS.  361 

I  swear  to  thee,  good  wencli,  if  thou  lie  still  and  restful,  I  will 
take  thee  to  see  her  some  of  these  days.  Hush  thee  now,  dearie ; 
'tis  going  right  well  with  the  lass  now." 

The  doctor  touched  the  arm  of  Judith's  father;  and  they  both 
withdrew. 

"She  knew  you  not,"  said  he.  "And  the  fewer  people 
around  her  the  better — they  set  her  fancies  wandering." 

They  went  down-stairs  to  where  Quiney  was  awaiting  them ; 
and  the  sombre  look  on  their  faces  told  its  own  tale. 

"She  is  in  danger!"  he  said,  quickly. 

The  doctor  was  busy  with  his  own  thoughts,  but  he  glanced 
at  the  young  man,  and  saw  the  burning  anxiety  of  his  eyes. 

"  The  fev^er  must  run  its  course,"  said  he,  "and  Judith  hath 
had  a  brave  constitution  tbese  many  years  that  I  fear  not  will 
make  a  good  fight.  'Twas  a  sore  pity  that  she  was  so  distressed 
and  stricken  down  in  spirits,  as  I  hear,  ere  the  fever  seized  her." 

Quiney  turned  to  the  window. 

"Too  late — too  late!"  said  he.  "And  yet  I  spared  not  the 
nag." 

"You  have  done  all  that  man  could  do,"  her  father  said, 
going  to  him.  "Nay,  had  I  myself  guessed  that  she  was  in 
such  peril — but  'tis  past  recall  now." 

And  then  he  took  the  young  man  by  the  hand,  and  grasped 
it  firmly. 

"Good  lad,"  said  he,  "this  that  you  did  for  us  was  a  right 
noble  act  of  kindness,  and  I  trust  in  Heaven's  mercy  that  Ju- 
dith herself  may  live  to  thank  you.  As  for  me,  my  thanks  to 
you  are  all  too  poor  and  worthless;  I  must  be  content  to  re- 
main your  debtor — and  your  friend." 


363  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

AN   AWAKENING. 

It  was  going  ill  with  her.  Late  one  night,  Quiney,  who 
had  kept  hovering  about  the  house,  never  able  to  sit  patient- 
ly and  watch  the  anxious  coming  and  going  withindoors,  and 
never  able  to  tear  himself  away  but  for  a  few  hundred  yards, 
wandered  out  into  the  clear  star-lit  darkness.  His  heart  was 
full.  They  had  told  him  the  crisis  was  near  at  hand.  And 
almost  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  was  already  over.  Judith  was 
going  away  from  them.  And  those  stars  overhead — he  knew 
but  little  of  their  names ;  he  understood  but  little  of  the  vast 
immensities  and  deeps  that  lay  between  them;  they  were  to 
him  but  as  grains  of  light  in  a  darkened  floor;  and  far  above 
that  floor  rose  the  wonderful  shining  city  that  he  had  heard  of 
in  the  Book  of  Revelation.  And  already  —  so  wild  and  un- 
strung were  his  fancies — he  could  see  the  foursquare  walls  of 
jasper,  and  the  gates  of  pearl,  and  the  wide  white  steps  leading 
up  to  these;  and  who  was  that  who  went  all  alone — giving  no 
backward  thought  to  any  she  was  leaving  behind — up  those 
shining  steps,  with  a  strange  light  on  her  forehead  and  on  her 
trembling  hands  ?  He  saw  her  slowly  kneel  at  the  gate;  her 
head  meekly  bowed,  her  hands  clasped.  And  when  they  open- 
ed it,  and  when  she  rose  and  made  to  enter,  he  could  have 
cried  aloud  to  her  for  one  backward  look,  one  backward 
thought,  toward  Stratford  town  and  the  friends  of  her  child- 
hood and  her  youth.  Alas!  there  was  no  such  thing.  There 
was  wonder  on  her  f^ce,  as  she  turned  to  this  side  and  to  that, 
and  she  went  hesitatingly;  and  when  they  took  her  hands  to 
lead  her  forward,  she  regarded  them,  this  side  and  that,  jileased, 
and  wondering,  and  silent;  but  there  was  never  a  thought  of 
Stratfoi'd  town.  Could  that  be  Judith  that  was  going  away 
from  them  so — she  that  all  of  them  had  known  so  dearly? 
And  to  leave  her  own  friends  without  one  word  of  farewell ! 
Those  others  there — she  went  with  them  smiling  and  wonder- 
ing, and  looking  in  silence  from  one  to  the  other;    but  she 


AN  AWAKENING.  363 

knew  tliem  not.  Her  friends  were  here — here — with  breaking 
hearts  because  she  had  gone  away  and  forgotten  them,  and 
vanished  within  those  far-shining  gates. 

And  then  some  sudden  and  sullen  thought  of  the  future 
would  overtake  him.  The  injunctions  laid  on  him  by  Judith's 
father  could  not  be  expected  to  last  forever.  And  if  this  were 
to  be  so ;  if  the  love  and  desire  of  his  youth  were  to  be  stolen 
away  from  him ;  if  her  bright  young  life,  that  was  so  beautiful 
a  thing  to  all  who  knew  her,  was  to  be  extinguished,  and  leave 
instead  but  a  blankness  and  an  aching  memory  through  the 
long  years — then  there  might  ax'rive  a  time  for  a  settlement. 
The  parson  was  still  coming  about  the  house,  for  the  women- 
folk were  comforted  by  his  presence ;  but  Judith's  father  regard- 
ed him  darkly,  and  had  scarce  ever  a  word  for  him.  As  for 
Quiney,  he  moved  away  or  left  the  house  when  the  good  man 
came  near :  it  was  safer  so.  But  in  the  f utui'e — when  one  was 
freer  to  act — for  those  injunctions  could  not  be  expected  to  last 
forever — and  what  greater  joy  could  then  be  secured  than  the 
one  fierce  stroke  of  justice  and  revenge  ?  He  did  not  reason 
out  the  matter  much ;  it  was  a  kind  of  flame  in  his  heart  when- 
ever he  thought  of  it. 

And  in  truth  that  catastrophe  was  nearly  occurring  now. 
He  had  been  wandering  vaguely  along  the  highways,  apj)ealing 
to  the  calmness  of  the  night,  as  it  were,  and  the  serenity  of  the 
star-lit  heavens,  for  some  quieting  of  his  terrible  fears;  and 
then  in  his  restlessness  he  walked  back  toward  the  cottage, 
anxious  for  further  news,  and  yet  scarcely  daring  to  enter  and 
ask.  He  saw  the  dull  red  light  in  the  window,  but  could  hear 
no  sound.  And  would  not  his  very  footfall  on  the  path  dis- 
turb her?  They  all  of  them  went  about  the  house  like  ghosts. 
And  were  it  not  better  that  he  should  remain  here,  so  that  the 
stillness  dwelling  around  the  place  should  not  be  broken  even 
by  his  breathing?  So  quiet  the  night  was,  and  so  soundless, 
he  could  have  imagined  that  the  wings  of  the  angel  of  mercy 
were  brooding  over  the  little  cottage,  hushing  it,  as  it  were, 
and  bringing  rest  and  sleep  to  the  sore-bewildered  brain.  He 
would  not  go  near.  These  were  the  ijrecious  hours.  And  if 
peace  had  at  last  stolen  into  the  sick-chamber,  and  closed  the 
troubled  eyelids,  were  it  not  better  to  i^main  away,  lest  even 
a  whisper  should  break  the  charm  ? 


364  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

Suddenly  he  saw  the  door  of  the  cottage  open,  and  in  the 
dull  light  a  dark  figure  appeared.  He  heard  footsteps  on  the 
garden  path.  At  first  his  heart  felt  like  stone,  and  he  could 
not  move,  for  he  thought  it  was  some  one  coming  to  seek  him 
with  evil  news;  hut  presently,  in  the  clear  starlight,  he  knew 
who  this  was  that  was  now  approaching  him.  He  lost  his 
senses.     All  the  black  night  went  red. 

"So,  good  parson,"  said  he  (but  he  clinched  his  fists  togeth- 
er, so  that  he  should  not  give  way),  "art  thou  satisfied  with 
thy  handiwork?" 

There  was  more  of  menace  in  the  tone  than  in  the  taunt. 
At  all  events,  with  some  such  phrase  as,  "  Out  of  the  way,  tav- 
ern-brawler !"  the  parson  raised  his  stick  as  if  to  defend  him- 
self. And  then  the  next  instant  he  was  gripped  firm,  as  in  a 
vise;  the  stick  was  twisted  from  his  grasp  and  whirled  away 
far  into  tlie  dark;  and  forthwith — for  it  all  happened  in  a 
moment — five  fingers  had  him  by  the  back  of  the  neck. 

There  was  one  second  of  indecision — what  it  meant  to  this 
young  athlete,  who  had  his  eyes  afire  and  his  mind  afire  with 
thoughts  of  the  ill  that  had  been  done  to  the  one  he  loved  the 
dearest,  can  well  be  imagined.  But  he  flung  his  enemy  from 
him,  forward,  into  the  night. 

"Take  thy  dog's  life,  and  welcome  —  coward  and  woman- 
striker!" 

He  waited;  there  was  no  answer.  And  then — all  shaking 
from  the  terrible  pressure  he  had  put  on  himself,  and  still  hun- 
gering and  athirst  to  go  back  and  settle  the  matter  then  and 
there — he  turned  and  walked  along  the  road,  avoiding  the  cot- 
tage, and  still  with  his  heart  aflame,  and  wondering  whether 
he  had  done  well  to  let  the  hour  of  vengeance  go. 

But  that  did  not  last  long.  What  cared  he  for  this  man  that 
any  thought  of  him  should  occupy  him  at  such  a  moment?  All 
his  anxieties  were  elsewhere — in  that  hushed  small  chamber, 
where  the  lamp  of  life  was  flickering  low,  and  all  awaiting, 
with  fear  and  trembling,  what  the  dawn  might  bring.  And  if 
she  were  to  slip  away  so — escaping  from  them,  as  it  were — 
without  a  word  of  recognition  ?  It  seemed  so  hard  that  the  sol- 
itary figure  going  up  those  far,  wide  steps  should  have  no 
thought  for  them  she  had  left  behind.  As  he  saw  her  there, 
content  was  on  her  face,  and  a  mild  radiance,  and  wonder; 


AN  AWAKENING.  365 

and  her  new  companions  were  pleasant  to  her.      She  would  go 
away  with  them  ;  she  was  content  to  be  with  them ;  she  would 
disappear  amongst  them,  and  leave  no  sign.     And  Sunday- 
morning  after  Sunday  morning  he  would  look  in  vain  for 
her  coming  through  the  church-yard,  under  the  trees;    and 
there  would  be  a  vacant  place  in  the  pew ;  no  matter  who  might 
be  there,  one  face  would  be  wanting ;  and  in  the  afternoon  the 
wide  meadows  would  be  empty.     Look  where  he  might,  from 
the  foot-bridge  over  the  river,  from  Bardon  Hill,  from  the  Weir 
Brake,  there  would  be  no  more  chance  of  his  descrying  Judith 
walking  with  Prudence — the  two  figures  that  he  could  make 
out  at  any  distance  almost.     And  what  a  radiance  there  used 
to  be  on  her  face! — not  that  mild  wonder  that  he  saw  as  she 
passed  away  with  her  companions  within  the  shining  gates, 
but  a  happy,  audacious  radiance,  so  that  he  could  see  she  was 
laughing  long  ere  he  came  near  her.     That  was  Judith ;  that 
was  the  Judith  he  had  known,  laughing,  radiant,  in  summer 
meadows,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  careless  of  the  young  men, 
though  her  eyes  would  regard  them,  and  always  with  her  chief 
secrets  and  mystifications  for  her  friend  Prudence.      That  was 
Judith;  not  this  poor  worn  sufferer,  wandering  through  dark- 
ened ways,  the  frail  lamp  of  her  life  going  down  and  down,  so 
that  they  dared  not  speak  in  the  room.     And  that  message  that 
she  had  left  for  him  with  Prudence — was  it  a  kind  of  farewell  ? 
They  were  about  the  last  words  she  had  spoken  ere  her  speech 
lost  all  coherence  and  meaning — a  farewell  before  she  entered 
into  that  dark  and  unknown  realm.      And  there  was  a  touch 
of  reproach  in  them,  too:  "  Tell  him  he  did  me  wrong  to  think 
I  had  gone  to  meet  the  parson  in  the  church-yai'd ;  'twas  but 
a  chance."     The  Judith  of  those  former  days  was  far  too  proud 
to  make  any  such  explanation ;  but  this  poor  stricken  creature 
seemed  anxious  to  appease  every  one  and  make  friends.     And 
was  he  to  have  no  chance  of  begging  her  forgiveness  for  doing 
her  that  wrong,  and  of  telling  how  little  she  need  regard  it,  and 
how  tliat  she  might  dismiss  the  parson  from  her  mind  alto- 
gether, as  he  had  done?     Tbe  ride  to  London:  she  knew  no- 
thing of  that;  she  knew  nothing  of  her  father  having  come 
all  the  way  to  see  her.     Why,  as  they  came  riding  along,  by 
Uxbridge,  and  Wycombe,  and  Woodstock,  and  Eiistone,  many 
a  time  bo  looked  forward  to  telling  Judith  of  wliut  lie  liad 

15* 


366  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE, 

done ;  and  he  hoped  that  she  would  go  round  to  the  stable,  and 
have  a  word  for  the  Galloway  nag-,  and  pat  the  good  beast's 
neck.  But  all  that  was  over  now,  and  only  this  terrible  dark- 
ness and  the  silence  of  the  roads  and  the  trees ;  and  always  the 
dull,  steady,  ominous  light  in  the  small  window.  And  still 
more  terrible  that  vision  overhead — the  far  and  mystic  city,  and 
Judith  entering  with  those  new  and  strange  companions,  re- 
garding this  one  and  that,  and  ever  with  a  smile  on  her  face 
and  a  mild  wonder  in  her  eyes,  they  leading  her  away  by  the 
hand,  and  she  timid,  and  looking  from  one  to  the  other,  but 
j)leased  to  go  with  them  into  the  strange  country.  And  aa 
for  her  old  friends,  no  backward  look  or  backward  thought  for 
them  :  for  them  only  the  sad  and  empty  town,  the  voiceless 
meadows,  the  vacant  space  in  the  pew,  to  which  many  an  eye 
would  be  turned  as  week  by  week  came  round.  And  there 
would  be  a  grave  somewhere,  that  Prudence  would  not  leave 
untended. 

But  with  the  first  gray  light  of  the  dawn  there  came  a  sud- 
den trembling  joy,  that  was  so  easily  and  eagerly  translated 
into  a  wild  audacious  hope.  Judith  had  fallen  into  a  sound 
sleep — a  sleep  hushed  and  profound,  and  no  longer  tortured 
with  moanings  and  dull  low  cries  as  if  for  pity.  A  slumber 
profound  and  beneficent,  with  calmer  breathing  and  a  calmer 
pulse.  If  only  on  the  awakening  she  might  show  that  the 
crisis  was  over,  and  she  started  on  the  road — however  tedious 
that  might  be — toward  the  winning  back  of  life  and  health! 

It  was  Prudence  who  brought  him  the  news.  Sbe  looked 
like  a  ghost  in  the  wan  light,  as  she  opened  the  door  and  came 
forth.  She  knew  he  would  not  be  far  away;  indeed,  his  eyes 
were  more  accustomed  to  tliis  strange  light  than  hers,  and  ere 
she  had  time  to  look  about  and  search  for  him  he  was  there. 
And  when  she  told  him  this  news,  he  could  not  speak  for  a  lit- 
tle while ;  for  his  mind  rushed  forward  blindly  and  wildly  to  a 
happy  consummation  ;  he  would  have  no  misgivings ;  this  wel- 
come sleep  was  a  sure  sign  Judith  was  won  back  to  them ;  not 
yet  was  she  to  go  away  all  alone  up  those  wide,  sad  steps. 

"And  you,  Prudence,"  said  he,  or  rather  he  whispered  it  ea- 
gerly, that  no  sound  should  disturb  the  profound  quiet  of  the 
house,  "now  you  must  go  and  lie  down — you  are  worn  out. 
Why,  you  ai-e  all  trembling." 


AN  AWAKENING.  367 

"The  morning  air  is  a  little  cold,"  said  she;  but  it  was  not 
that  that  caused  her  trembling. 

"You  must  go  and  lie  down  and  get  some  sleep  too,"  said 
he  (but  glancing  up  at  the  window,  as  if  all  his  thoughts  were 
there).  "  What  a  patient  watcher  you  have  been !  And  now, 
when  there  is  this  chance,  do,  dear  Prudence,  go  within  and  lie 
down  for  a  while — " 

"Oh,  how  could  I  ?— how  could  I  ?"  she  said;  and  unknown 
to  herself  she  was  wringing  her  hands  —not  from  grief,  but 
from  mere  excitement  and  nervousness.  "  But  for  this  sleep, 
now,  the  doctor  was  fearing  the  worst.  I  know  it,  though  he 
would  not  say  it.  And  she  is  so  weak!  Even  if  this  sleep 
calm  her  brain,  or  if  she  come  out  of  it  in  her  right  mind,  one 
never  knows:  she  is  so  worn  away,  she  might  waken  only  to 
slip  away  from  us." 

But  he  would  not  hear  of  that.  No,  no ;  this  happy  slumber 
was  but  the  beginning  of  her  recovery.  Now  that  she  was  on 
the  turn,  Judith's  brave  constitution  would  fight  through  the 
rest.  He  knew  it;  he  was  sure  of  it;  had  there  ever  been  a 
healthier  or  happier  wench,  or  one  with  such  gallant  spirits 
and  cheerfulness  ? 

"You  have  not  seen  her  these  last  two  days,"  Prudence  said, 
sadly. 

"  Nay,  I  fear  not  now;  I  know  she  will  fight  through,"  said 
he,  confidently  (even  with  an  excess  of  confidence,  so  as  to  cheer 
this  patient  and  gentle  nurse).  "And  what  a  spite  it  is  I  can 
do  nothing  ?  Did  you  ask  the  doctor,  Prudence  ?  Is  there 
nothing  that  I  can  fetch  him  from  Warwick  ?— ay,  or  from 
London,  for  that  matter?  'Tis  well  for  you  that  can  do  so 
much  for  your  friend;  Avhat  can  I  do  but  wait  about  the 
lanes  ?  I  would  take  a  message  anywhere,  for  any  of  you,  if 
you  would  but  tell  me;  'tis  all  that  I  can  do.  But  when  she 
is  getting  better,  that  will  be  different— that  will  be  all  differ- 
ent then ;  I  shall  be  able  to  get  her  many  things  to  please 
her  and  amuse  her,  and— and — think  of  this,  Prudence,"  said 
he,  his  fancies  running  away  with  him  in  his  eagerness  "Do 
you  not  think,  now,  that  when  she  is  well  enough  to  be  carried 
into  the  garden — do  you  not  think  that  Pleydell  and  I  could 
devise  some  kind  of  coucli— to  be  put  on  wheels,  see  you,  and 
slung  on  leather  bands,  so  that  it  would  go  easily?    Why,  I 


368  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

swear  it  could  be  made,  and  might  be  in  readiness  for  her. 
What  think  you,  Prudence  ?  No  one  could  object  if  we  pre- 
pared it — ay,  and  we  should  get  it  to  go  as  smooth  as  velvet, 
so  that  she  could  be  taken  along  the  lanes  or  through  the 
meadows." 

"I  would  there  were  need  of  it,"  Prudence  said,  wistfully. 
' '  You  go  too  fast.  Nay,  but  if  she  come  well  out  of  this  deep 
sleep,  who  knows  ?  Pray  Heaven  there  be  need  for  all  that 
you  can  do  for  her !" 

The  chirping  of  a  small  bird  close  by  startled  them — it  was 
the  first  sound  of  the  coming  day. 

And  then  she  said,  regarding  him: 

"Would  you  like  to  see  Judith  for  a  moment?  'Twould 
not  disturb  her." 

He  stepped  back,  with  a  sudden  look  of  dismay  on  his  face. 

"  What  mean  you,  Prudence  ?"  he  said,  quickly.  "You  do 
not  think— that — there  is  fear  ? — that  I  should  look  at  her  now  V 

"Nay,  not  so;  I  trust  not,"  she  said,  simply.  "But  if  you 
wished,  you  might  slip  up  the  stair — 'twovild  do  no  harm." 

He  stooped  and  took  off  his  shoes  and  threw  them  aside; 
then  she  led  the  way  into  the  house,  and  they  went  stealthily 
up  the  short  wooden  stair.  The  door  was  open  an  inch  or  two ; 
Prudence  opened  it  still  further,  but  did  not  go  into  the  room. 
Nor  did  he ;  he  remained  at  the  threshold ;  for  Judith's  mother, 
who  was  sitting  by  the  bedside,  and  who  had  noticed  the  slight 
opening  of  the  door,  had  raised  her  hand  quietly,  as  if  in 
warning.  And  was  this  Judith,  then,  that  the  cold  morning 
light,  entering  by  the  small  casement,  showed  him — worn  and 
wasted,  the  natux*al  radiance  of  her  face  all  fled,  and  in  place 
of  that  a  dull  hectic  tone  that  in  no  wise  concealed  the  ravages 
the  fever  had  made?  But  she  slept  sound.  The  bent  arm, 
that  she  had  raised  to  her  head  ere  she  fell  asleep,  lay  abso- 
lutely still.  No,  it  was  not  the  Judith  he  had  known — so  gay 
and  radiant  and  laughing  in  the  summer  meadows;  but  the 
wasted  form  still  held  a  precious  life;  and  he  had  no  mistrust 
— he  would  not  doubt;  there  was  there  still  what  would  win 
back  for  him  the  Judith  that  he  had  known — ay,  if  they  had 
to  wait  all  through  the  winter  for  the  first  silver-white  days 
of  spring. 

They  stole  down -stairs  again,  and  went  to  the  front  door. 


AN  AWAKENING.  369 

All  the  world  was  awaking  now ;  the  light  was  clear  around 
them ;  the  small  birds  were  twittering  in  the  bushes. 

"And  will  you  not  go  and  get  some  sleep  now,  Prudence ?" 
said  he.  ' '  Surely  you  have  earned  it ;  and  now  there  is  the 
chance." 

"I  could  not,"  she  said,  simply.  "There  will  be  time  for 
sleep  by-and-by.  But  now,  if  you  would  do  us  a  service,  will 
you  go  over  to  the  town  and  tell  Susan  that  Judith  is  sleep- 
ing peacefully,  and  that  she  need  not  hurry  back,  for  there  be 
plenty  of  us  to  watch  and  wait  ?  And  Julius  would  like  to 
hear  the  good  news— that  I  know.  Then  you  yourself— do 
you  not  need  rest  ? — why — " 

"Heed  not  for  me,  dear  Prudence,"  said  he,  quickly,  as  if  it 
were  not  worth  while  wasting  time  on  that  topic.  "But  is 
there  naught  else  I  can  do  for  you  ?  Naught  that  I  can  bring 
for  you — against  her  getting  well  again  ?" 

"Nay,  'tis  all  too  soon  for  that,"  was  Prudence's  answer. 
"  I  would  the  occasion  were  here,  and  sure." 

Well,  he  went  away  over  to  the  town,  and  told  his  tale  to 
those  that  were  astir,  leaving  a  message  for  those  who  were  not ; 
and  then  he  passed  on  to  his  own  house,  and  threw  himself  on 
his  bed.  But  he  could  not  rest.  It  was  too  far  away,  while  all 
his  thoughts  were  concentrated  on  the  small  cottage  over  there. 
So  he  wandered  back  thither;  and  again  had  assurance  that 
Judith  was  doing  well ;  and  then  he  went  quietly  up  to  the 
summer-house,  and  sat  down  thei-e;  and  scarcely  had  he  folded 
his  arms  on  the  little  table  and  bent  forward  his  head  than  he 
was  in  a  deep  sleep — nature  claiming  her  due  at  last. 

The  liours  passed ;  he  knew  nothing  of  them.  He  was  awak- 
ened by  Judith's  father;  and  he  looked  round  him  strangely, 
for  he  saw  by  the  light  that  it  was  now  afternoon. 

"Good  lad,"  said  he,  "I  make  no  scruple  of  rousing  you. 
There  is  better  news.  She  is  awake,  and  quite  calm  and  peace- 
able, and  in  her  right  mind— though  sadly  weak  and  listless, 
poor  wench." 

"Have  you  seen  her — have  you  spoken  with  her?"  he  said, 
eagerly. 

' '  Nay,  not  yet, "  Judith's  father  said.  ' '  I  am  doubtful.  She 
is  so  faint  and  weak.     I  would  not  disturb  her." 

"  I  pray  you,  sir,  go  and  speak  with  her,"  Quiney  entreated. 


370  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

"Nay,  I  know  what  will  give  her  more  peace  of  mind  than 
anything.  And  if  she  begin  to  recall  what  happened  ere  she 
fell  ill —  I  pray  you,  sir,  of  your  kindness  go  and  speak  with 
her." 

Judith's  fatlier  went  away  to  the  house  slowly,  and  with  his 
head  bent  in  meditation.  He  spoke  to  the  doctor  for  a  few 
minutes.  But  when,  after  some  deliberation,  he  went  upstairs, 
and  into  the  room,  it  was  his  own  advice,  his  own  plan,  he 
was  acting  on. 

He  went  forward  to  the  bedside,  and  took  the  chair  that  the 
old  grandmother  had  instantly  vacated,  and  sat  down  just  as 
if  nothing  had  occurred. 

"Well,  lass,  how  goes  it  with  thee?"  he  said,  with  an  air 
of  easy  unconcern.  "Bravely  well,  I  hear.  Thou  must  haste 
thee  now,  for  soon  we  shall  be  busy  with  the  brewing." 

She  regarded  him  in  a  strange  way— perhaps  wondering 
whether  this  was  another  vision.     And  then  she  said,  faintly: 

"Why  are  you  come  back  to  Stratford,  father  ?" 

"Oh,  I  have  many  affairs  on  hand,"  said  he;  "and  yet  I 
like  not  the  garden  to  be  so  empty.  I  can  not  spare  thee  over 
here  much  longer.  'Tis  better  when  thou  art  in  the  garden, 
and  little  Bess  with  thee — nay,  I  swear  to  thee  thou  disturbest 
me  not — and  so  must  thou  get  quickly  well  and  home  again." 

He  took  her  hand— the  thin,  worn,  white  hand — and  patted  it. 

"Why,  "said  he,  "I  hear  they  told  thee  some  foolish  story 
about  me.  Believe  them  not,  lass.  Thou  and  I  are  old  friends, 
despite  thy  saucy  ways,  and  thy  laughing  at  the  young  lads 
about,  and  thy  lecturing  of  little  Bess  Hall — oh,  thou  hast  thy 
faults,  a  many  of  them  too ;  but  heed  no  idle  stories,  good  lass, 
that  come  between  me  and  thee.  Nay,  I  will  have  a  sharp 
word  for  thee  an  thou  do  not  as  the  doctor  bids ;  and  thou  must 
rest  thee  still  and  quiet,  and  trouble  not  thy  head,  for  we  want 
thee  back  to  us  at  New  Place.  Why,  I  tell  thee  I  can  not  have 
the  garden  left  so  empty :  wouldst  have  me  with  none  to  talk 
with  but  goodman  Matthew?  So  now  farewell  for  the  moment, 
good  wench ;  get  what  sleep  thou  canst,  and  take  what  the  doc- 
tor bids  thee ;  why,  knowst  thou  laot  of  the  ribbons  and  gloves  I 
have  brought  thee  all  the  way  from  London  ?— I  warrant  me 
they  will  please  thee." 

He  patted  her  hand  again,  and  rose  and  left— as  if  it  were  all 


AN  AWAKENING.  371 

a  matter  of  course.  For  a  minute  or  two  after,  the  girl  looked 
dazed  and  bewildered,  as  if  she  were  trying  to  recall  many- 
things  ;  but  always  she  kept  looking  at  the  hand  that  he  had 
held,  and  there  was  a  pleased  light  in  her  sad  and  tired  eyes. 
She  lay  still  and  silent,  for  so  she  had  been  enjoined. 

But  by-and-by  she  said,  in  a  way  that  was  like  the  ghost  of 
Judith's  voice  of  old : 

"Grandmother,  I  can  scax'ce  hold  up  my  hand — will  you 
help  me  ?     What  is  this  that  is  on  my  head  ?" 

"Why,  'tis  a  pretty  lace  cap  that  Susan  brought  thee,"  the 
grandmother  said,  ' '  and  we  would  have  thee  smart  and  neat 
ere  thy  father  came  in." 

But  she  had  got  her  hand  to  her  head  now,  and  then  the 
truth  became  known  to  her.     She  began  to  cry  bitterly. 

"Oh,  grandmother,  grandmother,"  she  said,  or  sobbed, 
"they  have  cut  otf  my  hair,  and  my  father  will  never  look 
with  favor  on  me  again.     'Twas  all  he  ever  praised." 

"Dearie,  dearie,  thy  hair  will  grow  again  as  fair  as  ever — 
ay,  and  who  ever  had  prettier  ?"  the  old  grandmother  said. 
"Why,  surely;  and  the  roses  will  come  to  thy  cheeks  too,  that 
were  ever  the  brightest  of  any  in  the  town.  Thy  father? — 
heardst  thou  not  what  he  said  a  moment  ago — that  he  could 
not  bear  to  be  without  thee  ?  Nay,  nay,  fret  not,  good  lass; 
there  be  plenty  that  will  right  gladly  wait  for  the  growing 
of  thy  hair  again — ay,  ay,  there  be  plenty  and  to  spare  that 
will  hold  thee  in  high  favor,  and  think  well  of  thee,  and  thy 
father  most  of  all  of  them — have  no  fear." 

And  so  the  grandmother  got  her  soothed  and  hushed,  and  at 
last  she  lay  still  and  silent.     But  she  had  been  thinking. 

"  Grandmother,"  said  she,  regarding  her  thin  wasted  hand, 
"is  my  face  like  that  ?" 

' '  Hush  thee,  child ;  thou  must  not  speak  more  now,  or  the 
doctor  will  be  scolding  me." 

"  But  tell  me,  grandmother,"  she  pleaded. 

"Why,  then,"  she  answered,  evasively,  "it  be  none  so  plump 
as  it  were;  but  all  that  will  mend— ay,  ay,  good  lass,  'twill 
mend  surely." 

Again  she  lay  silent  for  a  while;  but  her  mind  was  busy 
with  its  own  fears. 

"Grandmother,"  she  said,  "will  you  promise  me  this — to 


372  JUDITH   SHAKESPEARE. 

keep  Quiney  away  ?    You  will  not  let  liim  come  into  the  room, 
good  grandmother,  should  he  ever  come  over  to  the  cottage?" 

"Ay,  and  be  this  thy  thanks,  then,  to  him  that  rode  all  the 
way  to  Loudon  town  to  bring  thy  father  to  thee  ?"  said  the  old 
dame,  with  some  affectation  of  reproach.  "Were  I  at  thy 
age,  I  would  have  a  fairer  message  for  him." 

"A  message,  grandmother?"  the  girl  said,  turning  her  lan- 
guid eyes  to  her  with  some  faint  eagerness.  "Ay,  that  I 
would  send  him  willingly.  He  went  to  London  for  me,  that 
I  know;  Prudence  said  so.  But  perchance  he  would  not  care 
to  have  it,  would  he,  think  you  ?" 

The  old  dame  listened,  to  make  sure  that  the  doctor  was  not 
within  hearing— for  this  talking  was  forbidden;  but  she  was 
anxious  to  have  the  girl's  mind  pleased  and  at  rest;  and  so 
she  took  Judith's  hand  aiid  whispered  to  her: 

"A  message  ?  Ay,  I  warrant  me  the  lad  would  think  more 
of  it  than  of  aught  else  in  the  world.  Why,  sweetheart,  he 
hath  been  never  away  from  the  house  all  this  time — watching 
to  be  of  service  to  any  one— night  and  day  it  hath  been  so ;  and 
that  he  be  not  done  to  death  passes  my  understanding.  Ay, 
and  the  riding  to  London,  and  the  bringing  of  thy  father,  and 
all— is't  not  worth  a  word  of  thanks  ?  Nay,  the  youth  hath 
won  to  my  favor,  I  declare  to  thee;  if  none  else  will  speak  for 
him,  I  will;  a  right  good  honest  youth,  I  warrant.  But  there 
now,  sweeting,  hush  thee ;  I  may  not  speak  more  to  thee,  else 
the  doctor  will  be  for  driving  me  forth." 

There  was  silence  for  some  time ;  then  Judith  said,  wistfully, 

"What  flowers  are  in  the  garden  now,  grandmother  ?" 

The  old  dame  went  to  the  window — slowly— it  was  an  excuse 
for  not  having  too  much  talking  going  on. 

"The  garden  he  far  past  its  best  now,"  said  she;  "but 
there  be  marigolds,  and  Michaelmas  daisies—" 

"Could  you  get  me  a  bit  of  rosemary,  grandmother?"  the 
girl  asked. 

' '  Eosemary !"  she  cried  in  affright — for  the  mention  of  the 
plant  seemed  to  strike  a  funeral  note.  "Foolish  wench,  thou 
knowst  I  can  never  get  the  rosemary  bushes  through  the 
spring  frosts.  Eosemary,  truly!  What  wantest  thou  with 
rosemaiy  ?" 

"  Or  a  pansy,  then  ?" 


TOWARD  THE  LIGHT.  373 

"A  pansy,  doubtless— ay,  ay,  that  be  better,  now— we  may 
find  thee  a  pansy  somewhere,  and  plenty  of  other  things,  so 
thou  lie  still  and  get  well." 

"Nay,  I  want  but  the  one,  grandmother,"  she  said,  slowly. 
"You  know  I  can  not  write  a  message  to  him;  and  yet  I 
would  send  him  some  token  of  thanks  for  all  that  he  hath 
done.  And  would  not  that  do,  grandmother  ? — could  you  but 
find  me  a  pansy,  if  there  be  one  left  anywhere,  and  a  small 
leaf  or  two;  and  if  'twere  put  in  a  folded  paper,  and  you 
could  give  it  him  from  me,  and  no  one  knowing  ?  I  would 
rest  the  happier,  grandmother,  for  I  would  not  have  him 
think  me  ungrateful — no,  no,  he  must  not  think  me  that. 
And  then,  good  grandmother,  you  will  tell  him  that  I  wish 
him  not  to  see  me ;  only— only,  the  little  flower  will  show  him 
that  I  am  not  ungrateful ;  for  I  would  not  have  him  think  me 
that." 

"Eest  you  still  now,  then,  sweeting,"  the  old  dame  said. 
"I  warrant  me  we  will  have  the  message  conveyed  to  him; 
but  rest  you  still,  rest  you  still,  and  ere  long  you  will  not  be 
ashamed  to  show  him  the  roses  coming  again  into  your  cheeks." 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

TOWARD    THE    LIGHT. 


This  fresh  and  clear  morning,  with  a  south  wind  blowing, 

and  a  blue  sky  ovei'head,  made  even  the  back  yard  of  Quiney's 

premises  look  cheerful,  though  the  suiTOundings  were  mostly 

empty  barrels  and  boxes.     And  he  was  singing,  too,  as  he  went 

on  with  his  task;  sometimes, 

"  riaij  on,  minstrel,  play  on,  minstrel, 
My  lady  is  mine  only  girl," 

and  sometimes, 

"  /  bonylit  thee  petticoats  of  the  best, 
The  cloth  so  fine  as  fine  might  be  ; 
I  gave  thee  jewels  for  thy  chest. 
And  all  this  cost  I  spent  on  thee^'' 

or  again,  he  would  practice  his  part  in  the  new  catch : 

^^  Merrily  sang — the  Ely  monks — 
When  rowed  thereby — Canute  the  King!" 


374  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

And  yet  this  that  he  was  so  busy  about  seemed  to  have  no- 
thing to  do  with  his  own  proper  trade.  He  had  chalked  up 
on  the  wall  a  space  about  the  size  of  an  ordinary  cottage 
window ;  at  each  of  the  upper  corners  he  had  hammered  in  a 
nail ;  and  now  he  was  endeavoring  to  suspend  from  these  sup- 
ports, so  that  it  should  hang  parallel  with  the  bottom  line,  an 
oblong  basket  roughly  made  of  wire,  and  pretty  obviously  of 
his  own  construction.  His  dinner— of  bread  and  cheese  and 
ale— stood  untouched  and  unheeded  on  a  bench  hard  by.  Some- 
times he  whistled,  sometimes  he  sang;  for  the  morning  air  was 
fresh  and  pleasant,  and  the  sunlight  all  about  was  enlivening. 

Presently  Judith's  father  made  his  appearance,  and  the  twist- 
ing and  shaping  of  the  wire  hooks  instantly  ceased. 

"She  is  still  going  on  well  ?"  the  lad  said,  with  a  rapid  and 
anxious  glance. 

''But  slowly  —  slowly,"  her  father  answered.  "Nay,  we 
must  not  demand  too  much.  If  she  but  hold  her  own  now, 
time  is  on  our  side,  and  the  doctor  is  more  than  ever  hopeful 
that  the  fever  hath  left  no  serious  harm  behind  it.  When  that 
she  is  a  little  stronger,  they  talk  of  having  her  carried  down- 
stairs— the  room  is  larger,  and  the  window  hath  a  pleasant  out- 
look." 

' '  I  heard  of  that,"  said  Quiney,  glancing  at  the  oblong  basket 
of  wire. 

"I  have  brought  you  other  news  this  morning,"  Judith's 
father  said,  taking  out  a  letter  and  handing  it  to  Quiney. 
"But  I  pray  you  say  nothing  of  it  to  the  wench;  her  mind  is 
at  rest  now;  we  will  let  the  past  go." 

"Nay,  I  can  do  no  hai*m  in  that  way,"  said  the  younger 
man,  in  something  of  a  hurt  tone,  "for  they  will  not  let  me 
see  her." 

"No,  truly  ?  Why,  that  is  strange,  now,"  her  father  said, 
affecting  to  be  surprised,  but  having  a  shrewd  guess  that  this 
was  some  fancy  of  the  girl's  own.  ' '  But  they  would  have  her 
kept  quiet,  I  know." 

Quiney  was  now  reading  the  letter.  It  was  from  one  of  Ju- 
dith's father's  companions  in  London,  and  the  beginning  of  it 
was  devoted  to  the  imparting  of  certain  information  that  had 
apparently  been  asked  from  him  touching  negotiations  for  the 
purchase  of  a  house  in  Blackfriars.     Quiney  rightly  judged 


TOWARD  THE  LIGHT.  375 

that  this  part  had  naught  to  do  with  him,  and  scanned  it 
briefly,  and  as  he  went  on  he  came  to  that  which  had  a  closer 
interest  for  him. 

The  writer's  style  was  ornate  and  cumbrous  and  confused, 
but  his  story  in  plainer  terms  was  this;  The  matter  of  the  pur- 
loined play  was  now  all  satisfactorily  ascertained  and  settled, 
except  as  regarded  Jack  Orridge  him.self,  wliom  a  dire  mis- 
chance had  befallen.  It  appeared  that  having  married  a  lady 
possessed  of  considei'able  wealth,  his  first  step  was  to  ransom 
— at  what  cost  the  writer  knew  not — the  play  that  had  been  sold 
to  the  booksellers,  not  by  himself,  but  by  one  Francis  Lloyd. 
It  was  said  that  this  Lloyd  had  received  but  a  trifle  for  it,  and 
had,  in  truth,  parted  with  it  in  the  course  of  a  drunken  frolic ; 
but  that  Gentleman  Jack,  as  they  called  liim,  had  to  disburse  a 
goodlj^  sum  ere  he  could  get  the  manuscript  back  into  his  own 
hands.  That  forthwith  he  had  come  to  the  theatre,  and  de- 
livered up  the  play,  with  such  expressions  of  penitence  and 
shame  that  they  could  not  forbear  to  give  him  full  quittance 
for  his  fault.  But  that  this  was  not  all ;  for,  having  heard 
that  Francis  Lloyd  had  in  many  quarters  been  making  a  jest 
of  tlie  matter,  and  telling  of  Orridge's  adventures  in  Warwick- 
shire, and  naming  names,  the  young  man  had  determined  to 
visit  him  with  personal  chastisement,  but  had  been  defeated 
in  this  by  Lloyd  being  thrust  into  prison  for  debt.  That  there- 
after Lloyd,  being  liberated  from  jail,  was  sitting  in  a  tavern 
with  certain  companions,  and  there  "Gentleman  Jack"  found 
him,  and  dealt  him  a  blow  on  the  face  with  the  back  of  his 
hand,  with  a  mind  to  force  the  duello  upon  him.  But  that 
here  again  Orridge  had  ill  fortune,  for  Lloyd,  being  in  his 
cups,  would  fight  then  and  tliere,  and  flung  him.self  on  him, 
without  a  sword  or  anything,  as  they  thought;  but  tliat  pre- 
sently, in  a  struggle,  Orridge  uttered  a  cry,  "I  am  stabbed!" 
and  fell  headlong,  and  they  found  him  with  a  dagger  wound 
in  his  side,  bleeding  so  that  they  thought  he  would  have  died 
ere  lielp  came.  And  that,  in  truth,  he  had  been  nigh  within 
death's  door,  and  was  not  yet  out  of  the  leech's  hands ;  while,  as 
for  Lloyd,  he  had  succeeded  in  making  good  his  escape,  and 
was  now  in  Flanders,  as  some  reported.  This  was  the  gist  of 
the  story,  as  far  as  Quiney  was  interested;  thereafter  came 
chiefly  details  about  the  theatre ;  and  the  writer  concluded  with 


376  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

wishing  his  correspondent  all  health  and  happiness,  and  bid- 
ding him  remember  "his  true  loving  friend,  Henry  Condell." 

Quiney  handed  back  the  letter. 

' '  I  wish  the  dagger  had  struck  the  worser  villain  of  the 
two,"  said  he. 

"'Tis  no  concern  of  ours,"  Judith's  father  said.  "And  I 
would  have  the  wench  hear  never  a  word  more  of  the  matter. 
Nay,  I  have  already  answered  her  that  'twas  all  well  and  set- 
tled in  London,  and  no  harm  done ;  and  the  sooner  'tis  quite 
forgotten  the  better.  The  young  man  hath  made  what  amends 
he  could;  I  trust  he  may  soon  be  well  of  his  wound  again. 
And  married,  is  he  ? — perchance  his  hurt  may  teach  him  to  be 
more  of  a  stay-at-home." 

Judith's  father  put  the  letter  in  his  pocket,  and  was  for  leav- 
ing, when  Quiney  suggested  that  if  he  were  going  to  the  cot- 
tage, he  would  accompany  him,  as  some  business  called  him 
to  Bidford.  And  so  they  set  out  together — the  younger  man 
having  first  of  all  made  a  bundle  of  the  wire  basket,  and  the 
nails  and  hooks  and  what  not,  so  that  he  could  the  more  easily 
carry  them. 

It  was  a  clear  and  mild  October  day ;  the  wide  country  very 
silent;  the  woods  turning  to  yellow  and  russet  now,  and  here 
and  there  golden  leaves  fluttering  down  from  the  elms.  So 
quiet  and  peaceful  it  all  was  in  the  gracious  sunlight ;  the 
steady  ploughing  going  on ;  groups  of  people  gleaning  in  the 
bean  fields;  but  not  a  sound  of  any  kind  reaching  them,  save 
the  cawing  of  some  distant  rooks.  And  when  they  drew  near 
to  Shottery,  Quiney  had  an  eye  for  the  cottage  gardens,  to  see 
what  flowers  or  shrubs  Avere  still  available;  for  of  course  the 
long  wire  basket,  when  it  was  hung  outside  Judith's  window, 
must  be  filled— ay,  and  filled  freshly  at  frequent  intervals.  If 
the  gardens  or  the  fields  or  the  hedge-rows  would  furnish  suf- 
ficient store,  there  would  be  no  lack  of  willing  hands  for  the 
gathering. 

They  went  first  to  the  front  door  (the  room  that  Judith  was 
to  be  moved  into  looked  to  the  back) ;  and  here,  ere  they  had 
crossed  the  threshold,  they  beheld  a  strange  thing.  The  old 
gi-andmother  was  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  wooden  stair,  with 
a  small  looking-glass  in  her  hand.  She  had  not  heard  them 
approach;  so  it  was  Avith  some  amazement  they  saw  her  de- 


TOWARD  THE  LIGHT,  377 

liberately  let  fall  the  glass  on  to  the  stone  passage,  where  natu- 
rally it  was  smashed  into  a  hundred  fragments.  And  forth- 
with she  began  to  scold  and  rate  the  little  Cicely ;  and  that  in 
so  loud  a  voice  that  her  anger  must  have  been  heard  in  the 
sick-room  above. 

"Ah,  thou  mischief,  thou  imp,  thou  idle  brat,  that  must 
needs  go  break  the  only  looking-glass  in  the  house !  A  handy 
"wench,  truly,  that  can  hold  nothing  with  thy  silly  fingers,  but 
must  break  cup,  and  j)latter,  and  pane ;  and  now  the  looking- 
glass — 'twere  well  done  to  box  thine  ears,  thou  mischief!" 

And  with  that  she  patted  the  little  girl  on  the  shoulder,  and 
shrewdly  winked,  and  smiled,  and  nodded  her  head;  and  then 
she  went  up  the  stair,  and  again  loudly  bewailing  her  misfor- 
tune. 

"  What  a  spite  be  this,  now !"  they  could  hear  her  say,  at  the 
door  of  Judith's  room.  ' '  The  only  looking-glass  in  the  house — 
and  just  as  thou  wouldst  have  it  sent  for!  That  mischievous 
idle  little  wench — heard  you  the  ci'asli,  sweetheart?  Well, 
well,  no  matter;  I  must  still  have  the  tiring  of  thee — against 
any  one  coming  to  see  thee;  ay, and  I  would  have  thee  brave 
and  smart,  when  thou  art  able  to  sit  up  a  bit;  ay,  and  thy  hair 
will  soon  be  growing  again,  sweeting.  And  then  the  trinkets 
that  thy  father  brought,  and  the  lace  cuffs  that  Quiney  gave 
thee — these  and  all  thou  must  wear.  Was  ever  such  a  spite, 
now  ? — our  only  looking-glass  to  be  broken  so;  but  thou  shall 
not  want  it,  sweetheart — nay,  nay,  thou  must  rest  in  my  hands. 
I  will  have  thee  smart  enough ;  when  any  would  come  to  see 
thee—" 

That  was  all  they  heard — for  now  she  shut  the  door;  but 
both  of  them  guessed  readily  enough  why  the  good  dame  had 
thrown  down  and  smashed  the  solitary  mirror  of  the  house. 

Then  they  went  within,  and  heard  from  Prudence  that  Ju- 
dith was  going  on  well,  but  vei-y  slowly;  and  tliat  her  mind 
was  in  perfect  calm  and  content,  only  that  at  times  she  seemed 
anxious  that  her  father  should  return  to  London,  lest  his  af- 
fairs should  be  hindered. 

' '  And  truly  I  must  go  ere  long, "  said  he ;  "  but  not  yet.  Not 
until  she  is  more  fairly  on  the  liighway." 

They  were  now  in  the  room  that  was  to  be  given  ixp  to  Ju- 
dith, because  of  its  larger  size. 


378  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

"Prudence,"  said  Quiney,  "if  the  bed  were  placed  so— by 
the  window— she  might  be  propped  up  so  that  when  she  chose 
she  could  look  abroad.  Were  not  that  a  simple  thing,  and 
cheerful  for  her  ?  And  I  have  arranged  a  small  matter  so 
that  every  morning  she  may  find  some  fresh  blossoms  await- 
ing her,  and  yet  not  disturbing  her  with  any  one  wishing  to 
enter  the  room.  Methinks  one  might  better  fix  it  now,  ere  she 
be  brought  down,  so  that  the  knocking  may  not  harm  her." 

"I  would  she  were  in  a  fit  state  to  be  brought  down,"  Pru- 
dence said,  rather  sadly.  "For  never  saw  I  any  one  so  weak 
and  helpless." 

All  the  same,  he  went  away  to  see  whether  the  oblong  basket 
of  wire  and  the  fastenings  would  fit;  and  although  (being  a 
tall  youth)  he  could  easily  reach  the  foot  of  the  window  with 
his  hands,  he  had  to  take  a  chair  with  him  in  order  to  gain 
the  proper  height  for  the  nails.  Prudence  from  within  saw 
what  he  was  after ;  and  when  it  was  all  fixed  up,  she  opened 
one  of  the  casements  to  speak  to  him,  and  her  face  was  well 
pleased. 

' '  Truly,  now,  that  was  kindly  thought  of, "  said  she.  ' '  And 
shall  I  tell  her  of  this  that  you  have  contrived  for  her  ?" 

"Why,  'tis  in  this  way,  Pi'udence, "  said  he,  rather  shame- 
facedly: "she  need  not  know  whether  'tis  this  one  or  that  that 
puts  a  few  blossoms  in  the  basket;  'twill  do  for  any  one — any 
one  that  is  passing  along  the  road  or  through  the  meadows, 
and  picks  up  a  pretty  thing  here  or  there.  'Twill  soon  be  hard 
to  get  such  things,  save  some  red  berries  or  the  like ;  but  when 
any  can  stop  in  passing  and  add  their  mite,  'twill  be  all  the 
easier,  for  who  that  knows  her  but  hath  good-will  toward  her  ?" 
'  *  And  her  thanks  to  whom  ?"  said  Prudence,  smiling. 
"Why,  to  all  of  them,"  said  he,  evasively.  "Nay,  I  would 
not  have  her  even  know  that  I  nailed  up  the  little  basket — 
perchance  she  might  think  I  was  too  officious." 

' '  And  can  you  undo  it  ?"  she  asked.    ' '  Can  you  take  it  dow' n  ?" 
"Surely,"  he  answered;  and  he  lifted  the  basket  off  the 
hooks  to  show  her. 

' '  For, "  said  she,  ' '  if  you  would  bring  it  round,  might  we  not 
put  a  few  flowers  in  it,  and  have  them  carried  up  to  Judith,  to 
show  her  what  you  have  designed  for  her  ?  In  truth  it  would 
please  her." 


'"and  IIKK   thanks   to    whom?'  said    PRUDKNCK,  SMILINfi.'' 


TOWARD  THE  LIGHT.  381 

He  was  not  proof  against  this  temptation.  He  carried  the 
basket  round ;  and  they  fell  to  gathering  such  blossoms  as  the 
garden  afforded — marigolds,  monthly  roses,  Michaelmas  dai- 
sies, and  the  like — with  some  scarlet  hips  from  the  neighbor- 
ing hedges,  and  some  broad  green  leaves  to  serve  as  a  cushion 
for  all  of  these.  But  he  did  not  stay  to  hear  how  his  present 
was  received.  He  was  on  his  way  to  Bidford,  and  on  foot, 
for  he  had  kept  his  promise  with  the  Galloway  nag.  So  he 
bade  Prudence  farewell,  and  said  he  would  call  in  again  on 
his  way  back  in  the  evening. 

The  wan,  sad  face  lit  up  with  something  like  i^leasure  when 
Judith  saw  this  little  present  brought  before  her;  it  was  not 
the  first  by  many  of  similar  small  attentions  that  he  had  paid 
her — tokens  of  a  continual  thoughtfulness  and  affection — 
though  he  was  not  even  permitted  to  see  her,  much  less  to 
speak  with  her.  How  his  business  managed  to  thrive  during 
this  period  they  could  hardly  guess;  only  that  he  seemed  to 
find  time  for  everything.  Apparently  he  was  content  with 
the  most  hap-hazard  meals,  and  seemed  able  to  get  along  with 
scarcely  any  sleep  at  all ;  and  always  he  was  the  most  hoi^eful 
one  in  the  house,  and  would  not  admit  that  Judith's  recovery 
seemed  strangely  slow,  but  regarded  everything  as  happening 
for  the  best,  and  tending  toward  a  certain  and  happy  issue. 
One  result  of  his  being  continually  in  or  about  the  cottage 
was  this — that  Master  Walter  Blaise  had  not  looked  near  them 
since  the  night  on  which  the  fever  reached  its  crisis.  The 
women-folk  surmised  that,  now  there  was  a  fair  hope  of  Ju- 
dith's recovery,  he  perchance  imagined  his  ministrations  to 
be  no  longer  necessary,  and  was  considerately  keeping  out  of 
the  way,  seeing  that  he  could  be  of  no  use.  At  all  events, 
they  did  not  discuss  the  subject  much ;  for  more  than  one  of 
them  had  perceived  that,  whenever  the  parson's  name  was 
mentioned,  Judith's  father  became  reticent  and  reserved — 
which  was  about  his  only  way  of  showing  displeasure — so  that 
they  got  into  the  habit  of  omitting  all  mention  of  Master 
Blaise,  for  the  better  preserving  and  maintaining  the  serenity 
of  the  domestic  atmosphere. 

And  yet  Master  Blaise  came  to  be  talked  of — and  to  Judith 
herself — this  very  morning.  Wlien  Prudence  went  into  the 
room,  carrying  Quiney's  flowers;  the  old  grandmother  said  slie 


382  JUDITH   SHAKESPEARE. 

would  go  down  and  see  how  dinner  was  getting  forward  (she 
having  more  mouths  to  feed  than  usual),  and  Prudence  was 
left  in  her  place,  Avith  strict  injunctions  to  see  that  Judith  took 
the  small  portions  of  food  that  had  been  ordered  her  at  the 
proper  time.  Prudence  sat  down  by  the  bedside.  These  two 
had  not  had  much  confidential  chatting  of  late,  for  Judith  had 
been  forbidden  to  talk  much,  and  was  far  too  weak  and  languid 
for  that,  while  generally  there  was  some  third  person  about  in 
attendance.  But  now  they  were  alone,  and  Prudence  had 
a  long  tale  to  tell  of  Quiney's  constant  watchfulness  and  care, 
and  all  of  the  little  things  he  had  thought  of  and  arranged 
for  her,  up  to  the  construction  of  the  wire  flower-basket. 

"But  what  he  hath  done,  Judith,  to  anger  Parson  Blaise  I 
can  not  make  out,"  she  continued;  "ay,  and  to  anger  him 
sorely;  for  yesternight,  when  I  Avent  over  to  see  how  my  bro- 
ther did,  I  met  Master  Blaise,  and  he  stayed  me  and  talked 
with  me  for  a  space.  Nay,  he  spoke  too  harshly  of  Quiney,  so 
that  I  had  to  defend  him,  and  say  what  I  had  seen  of  him — 
truly,  I  was  coming  near  to  speaking  with  warmth — and  then 
he  went  away  from  that.  And  think  you  what  he  came  to 
next,  Judith?" 

The  pale  quiet  face  of  the  speaker  was  overspread  with  a 
blush,  and  she  looked  timidly  at  her  friend. 

"What,  then,  sweetheart  ?" 

"Perchance  I  should  not  tell  you,"  she  said,  with  some  hesi- 
tation, and  then  she  said,  more  frankly:  "nay,  Avhy  should 
there  be  any  concealment  between  us,  Judith  ?  And  he  laid 
no  chai'ge  of  secrecy  on  me — in  truth,  I  said  that  I  Avould  think 
of  it,  and  might  even  have  to  ask  for  counsel  and  guidance. 
He  would  have  me  be  his  wife,  Judith." 

Judith  betrayed  no  atom  of  surprise;  nay,  she  almost  in- 
stantly smiled  her  approval — it  was  a  kind  of  friendly  congrat- 
ulation, as  it  were — and  she  would  have  reached  out  her  hand 
only  that  she  was  so  weak. 

"I  am  glad  of  that,  dear  mouse,"  said  she,  as  pleasantly  as 
she  could.  "There  would  you  be  in  your  proper  place — is't 
not  so  ?  And  what  said  you  ? — what  said  you,  sweetheart  ? 
Ah,  they  all  would  welcome  you,  be  sure;  and  a  parson's  wife 
—a  parson's  wife.  Prudence — Avould  not  that  be  your  proper 
place  ?  would  you  not  be  happy  so  ?" 


TOWARD  THE  LIGHT.  383 

"I  know  not,"  the  girl  said,  and  slie  spoke  wistfully,  and 
as  if  she  were  regarding  distant  things.  "  He  had  nearly  per- 
suaded me,  good  heart,  for  indeed  there  is  such  power  and 
clearness  in  all  he  says ;  and  it  was  almost  put  before  me  as  a 
duty,  and  something  incumbent  on  me,  for  the  pleasing  of  all 
of  them,  and  the  being  useful  and  serviceable  to  so  many;  and 
then — and  then — " 

There  was  another  timid  glance,  and  she  took  Judith's  hand, 
and  her  eyes  were  downcast  as  she  made  the  confession: 

"  Nay,  I  will  tell  thee  the  truth,  sweetheart.  Had  he  spoken 
to  me  earlier,  I — I  might  not  have  said  him  nay — so  good  a 
man  and  earnest  withal,  and  not  fearing  to  give  offense  if  he 
can  do  true  service  to  the  Master  of  us  all:  Judith,  if  it  be  un- 
maidenly,  blame  me  not,  but  at  one  time  I  had  tlioughts  of 
him;  and  sometimes,  ashamed,  I  would  not  go  to  your  house 
when  that  he  was  there  in  the  afternoon,  thdugli  Julius  won- 
dered, seeing  that  there  was  worship)  and  profitable  expound- 
iner.     But  now — now 'tis'clifferent." 

"Why,  dear  mouse,  why  ?"'  Judith  said,  with  some  astonish- 
ment. "You  must  not  flout  the  good  man.  'Tis  an  honor- 
able offer." 

Prudence  was  looking  back  on  that  past  time. 

"If  he  had  spoken  then,"  said  she,  absently,  "my  heart 
would  have  rejoiced;  and  well  I  knew  'twould  have  been  no 
harm  to  you,  dear  Judith,  for  who  could  doubt  how  you  were 
inclined — ay,  through  all  your  quarrels  and  misunderstand- 
ings ?  And  if  'twas  you  the  good  parson  wished  for  in  those 
days — " 

' '  Prudence,"  her  friend  said,  reproachfully, ' '  you  do  ill  to  go 
back  over  a  by-gone  story.  If  you  had  thoughts  of  him  then, 
when  as  yet  he  had  not  spoken,  why  not  now,  when  he  would 
have  you  be  his  wife  ?  'Tis  an  honorable  offer,  as  I  say;  and 
you— were  you  not  meant  for  a  parson's  wife,  sweetheart  ?" 

Then  Prudence  regarded  her  with  lier  lionest  eyes. 

"I  should  be  afraid,  Judith.  Perchance  I  have  listened 
overmuch  to  your  grandmothei''s  talking,  and  to  Quiney's ; 
they  are  both  of  them  angered  against  him.  They  say  he 
wrought  you  ill,  and  was  cruel  when  lie  should  have  been 
gentle  with  you,  and  was  overproud  of  his  oflice.  Nay,  I 
marked  that  your  father  had  scarce  ever  a  word  for  him  when 

16 


384  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

lie  was  coming  over  to  the  cottage,  but  would  get  away  some- 
how and  leave  him.  And — and  methinks  I  should  be  afraid, 
Judith;  'tis  no  longer  as  it  used  to  be  in  former  days;  and 
then — ^without  perfect  confidence — how  should  one  dare  to  ven- 
ture on  such  a  step  ?     No,  no,  Judith — I  should  be  afraid." 

"  In  truth  I  can  not  advise  thee,  then,  dear  heart,"  her  friend 
said,  looking  at  her  curiously.  "For  more  tlian  any  I  know 
should  you  marry  one  that  would  be  gentle  with  you,  and  kind. 
And  think  you  that  the  pai'son  would  overlord  it  ?" 

"  I  know  not — I  know  not,"  she  said,  in  the  same  absent  way. 
"But  with  doubt,  with  hesitation,  without  perfect  confidence, 
how  could  one  take  such  a  step  ?" 

And  then  she  bethought  her. 

"Why,  now,  all  this  talking  over  my  poor  affairs!"  she 
said,  more  cheei'fully.  "A  goodly  nurse  I  am  pi-oving  my- 
self! 'Tis  thy  affairs  are  of  greater  moment;  and  thou  must 
push  forward,  sweetheart,  and  get  well  more  rapidly,  else  they 
will  say  we  are  careless  and  foolish  that  can  not  bring  thee 
into  firmer  health." 

"But  I  am  well  content,"  said  Judith,  with  a  pei*fectly  placid 
smile. 

"Content?  But  you  must  not  be  content!"  Prudence  ex- 
claimed. "Would  you  remain  within-doors  until  your  hair 
be  grown  ?  Vanity  is  it,  then  ?  Ah,  for  shame — you  that  al- 
ways professed  to  be  so  proud,  and  careless  of  what  they 
thought !  Content,  truly !  Look  at  so  tliin  a  hand — are  you 
content  to  remain  so  ?" 

' '  I  am  none  so  ill, "  Judith  said,  pleasantly.  ' '  The  days  pass 
well  enough;  and  every  one  is  kind." 

"  But  I  say  you  must  not  be  content,"  Prudence  again  re- 
monstrated. ' '  Did  ever  any  one  see  such  a  poor,  weak,  white 
hand  as  that  ?     Look  at  tlie  thin,  thin  veins !" 

"Ah,  but  you  know  not,  sweetheart,"  Judith  said,  and  she 
herself  looked  at  those  thin  blue  veins  in  the  white  hand. 
"They  seem  to  me  to  be  running  full  of  music  and  happiness 
ever  since  I  came  out  of  the  fever,  and  found  my  father  talking 
to  me  in  the  old  way." 


"western  wind,  when  will  you  blow?"  385 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

"western  wind,  when  will  you  blow?" 

There  was  much  laughing  among  the  good  folk  of  Strat- 
ford town — or  rather  among  those  of  them  allowed  to  visit 
Quiuey's  back  yard — over  the  nondescript  vehicle  that  he  and 
his  friend  Pleydell  were  constructing  there.  But  that  was 
chiefly  at  the  first,  when  the  neighbors  would  call  it  a  coflSn 
on  wheels, or  a  grown-up  cradle;  afterwaz'd,  when  it  grew  into 
shape,  and  began  to  exhibit  traces  of  decoration  (the  little  can- 
opy at  the  head,  for  example,  was  covered  over  with  blue  taf- 
feta, that  made  a  shelter  from  the  sun),  they  moderated  their 
ridicule,  and  at  last  declared  it  a  most  ingenious  and  useful 
contrivance,  and  one  tliat  went  as  easily  on  its  leather  bands 
as  any  king's  coach  that  ever  was  built.  And  they  said  they 
hoped  it  would  do  good  service;  for  they  knew  it  was  meant 
for  Judith;  and  she  had  won  the  favor  and  good-will  of  many 
in  that  town— in  so  far  as  an  uiimarried  young  woman  was 
deemed  worthy  of  consideration. 

But  that  was  an  anxious  morning  when  Quincy  set  forth 
with  this  strange  vehicle  for  the  cottage.  Little  Willie  Hart 
was  there,  and  Quiney  had  flung  him  inside,  saying  he  would 
give  him  a  ride  as  far  as  Shottery ;  but  thereafter  he  did  not 
speak  a  word  to  the  boy.  For  this  was  tlie  morning  on  which 
he  was  to  see  Judith  for  the  first  time  since  the  fever  had  left 
her;  and  not  only  that, "but  he  had  been  appointed  to  carry 
her  down-stairs  to  the  larger  room  below.  This  was  by  the 
direct  instructions  of  the  doctor.  Judith's  father  was  now  in 
London  again;  the  doctor  was  not  a  very  powerful  man;  the 
staircase  was  overnarrow  to  let  two  of  the  women  try  it  be- 
tween them :  who,  therefore,  was  there  but  this  young  atblete 
to  gather  up  that  precious  charge  and  bear  her  gently  forth  ? 
But  when  he  thought  of  that  first  meeting  with  Judith  he  ti'em- 
bled,  and  dismay  and  apprehension  filled  bis  heart  lest,  he 
should  sbow  himself  in  the  smallest  way  shocked  by  her  ap- 
pearance.    Careless  as  she  migbt  have  been  of  other  things, 


386  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

she  had  always  put  a  value  on  that;  she  knew  that  she  had 
good  looks,  and  she  liked  to  look  pretty  and  dainty,  and  to 
wear  becoming'  and  pretty  things.  And  again  and  again  he 
schooled  himself  and  argued  Avith  himself.  He  must  be  pre- 
pared to  find  her  changed — nay,  had  he  not  already  had  one 
glimpse  of  her,  as  she  lay  asleep,  in  the  cold  light  of  the  dawn  ? 
He  must  be  prepared  to  find  the  happy  and  radiant  face  no 
longer  that,  but  all  faded  and  white  and  worn ;  the  clear-shin- 
ing eyes  no  longer  laughing,  but  sunken  and  sad;  and  the 
beautiful  sun-brown  hair — that  was  her  chiefest  pride  of  all — 
no  longer  clustering  round  her  neck.  Not  that  he  himself 
cared :  Judith  was  for  him  always  and  ever  Judith,  whatever 
she  might  be  like ;  but  his  terror  was  lest  he  should  betray,  in 
the  smallest  fashion,  some  pained  surprise.  He  knew  how 
sensitive  she  was;  and  as  an  invalid  she  would  be  even  more 
so;  and  what  a  fine  thing  it  would  be  if  her  eyes  were  sudden- 
ly to  fill  with  tears  on  witnessing  his  disappointment  ?  And 
so  he  argued  and  argued,  and  strove  to  think  of  Judith  as  a 
ghost — as  anything  rather  than  her  former  self;  and  when  he 
reached  the  cottage  he  asked  whether  Juditli  was  ready  to  be 
brought  down  in  so  matter-of-fact  a  way  that  he  seemed  per- 
fectly unconcerned. 

Well,  she  was  not  ready,  for  her  grandmother  had  the  tiring 
of  her;  and  the  old  dame  was  determined  that,  if  she  had  her 
way,  her  grandchild  should  look  none  too  like  an  invalid.  If 
the  sun-brown  curls  were  gone,  at  least  the  cap  that  she  wore 
should  have  pretty  blue  ribbons  where  it  met  under  the  chin. 
And  she  would  have  her  wear  the  lace  cuflFs,  too,  that  Quiney 
liad  brought  lier  from  Warwick:  did  not  she  owe  it  to  him  to 
do  service  for  the  gift  ?  And  when  all  that  was  done,  she  made 
Judith  take  a  little  wine  and  water — to  strengthen  her  for  the 
being  carried  down-stairs — and  then  she  sent  word  that  Quiney 
might  come  up. 

He  made  his  appearance  forthwith — a  little  pale,  perhaps, 
and  hesitating  and  apprehensive  as  he  crossed  the  threshold. 
And  then  he  came  quickly  forward,  and  there  was  a  sudden 
wonder  of  joy  and  gladness  in  his  eyes, 

"Judith !"  he  exclaimed,  quite  involuntarily,  and  forgetting 
everything,  ' '  why,  how  well  you  are  looking !  indeed,  indeed 
you  are !     Sweetheart,  you  are  not  changed  at  all !" 


"western  wind,  when  will  you  blow  ?"  387 

For  this  was  Judith:  not  any  of  the  spectral  phantoms  he 
had  been  conjuring  up,  but  Judith  herself,  regarding  him  with 
friendly  (if  yet  timid)  eyes ;  and  her  face,  as  he  looked  at  her 
in  this  glad  way,  was  no  longer  pale,  but  had  grown  rose-red 
as  the  face  of  a  bride.  Her  anxiety  and  nervousness  had  been 
far  greater  than  she  dared  to  tell  any  of  them ;  but  now  his 
surprise  and  delight  were  surely  real;  and  then — for  she  was 
very  weak,  and  she  had  been  anxious  and  full  of  fear,  and  this 
joy  of  seeing  him,  of  seeing  a  strange  face  that  belonged  to  the 
former  happy  time,  was  too  much  for  her.  Her  lips  were 
tremulous ;  tears  rose  to  her  eyes,  and  she  would  have  turned 
away  to  hide  her  crying,  but  that  all  at  once  he  recalled  his 
scattered  senses,  and  inwardly  cursed  himself  for  a  fool,  and 
forthwith  addressed  lier  in  the  most  cheerful  and  simple  way: 

"Why,  now,  what  stories  they  have  been  telling  me,  Judith ! 
I  should  scarce  know  you  had  been  ill.  You  are  thinner — oh 
yes,  you  are  a  little  thinner;  and  if  you  went  to  the  woods  to 
gather  nuts,  I  reckon  you  would  not  bring  home  a  lieavy  bag; 
but  that  will  all  mend  in  time.  In  honest  truth,  dear  Judith, 
I  am  glad  to  see  you  looking  none  so  ill ;  now  I  marvel  not  at 
your  fatlier  going  away  to  see  after  his  affairs— so  sure  he 
must  have  been." 

"  I  am  glad  that  he  went,  I  was  fi'etting  so,"  she  said  (and  it 
was  so  strange  to  hear  Judith's  voice — that  always  stirred  his 
heart  as  if  with  tlie  vibration  of  Susans  singing);  and  then 
she  added,  timidly  regarding  him — "And  you — I  have  caused 
you  much  trouble  also." 

He  laughed ;  in  truth  he  was  so  bewildered  with  the  delight 
of  seeing  this  real  living  Judith  before  him  that  he  scarce 
knew  what  he  said. 

"Trouble! — yes,  trouble  indeed,  that  I  could  do  nothing  for 
you,  and  all  the  others  waiting  with  you  and  cheering  you. 
But  now,  dear  Judith,  I  have  something  for  you— oh,  you  shall 
see  it  presently ;  and  you  may  laugh,  but  I  warrant  me  you  will 
find  it  easy  and  comfortable  when  that  you  are  allowed  to  go 
forth  into  the  garden.  'Tis  a  kind  of  couch,  as  it  were,  but  on 
wheels — nay,  you  may  call  it  your  chariot,  Judith,  if  you 
would  be  in  state;  and  if  you  may  not  go  further  than  the  gar- 
den at  first,  why,  then  you  may  lie  in  it,  and  have  some  one 
read  to  you;  and  there  is  a  small  curtain  if  you  would  shut 


388  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

them  all  out  and  go  to  sleep ;  ay,  and  when  the  time  comes  for 
you  to  go  along  the  lanes,  then  you  may  sit  up  somewhat,  for 
there  are  pillows  for  your  head,  and  for  your  back.  As  for  the 
drawing  of  it,  why,  little  Willie  Hart  can  pull  me  when  I  am 
in  it,  and  surely  he  can  do  the  same  for  you,  that  are  scarce 
so  heavy  as  I,  as  I  take  it.  Oh,  I  warrant  you,  you  will  soon 
get  used  to  it ;  and  'twill  be  so  much  pleasanter  for  you  than  be- 
ing always  within-doors ;  and  the  fresher  air — the  fresher  air 
will  soon  bring  back  your  color,  Judith." 

For  now  that  the  first  flush  of  embari'assment  was  gone,  he 
could  not  but  see  (though  still  he  talked  in  that  cheerful  strain) 
how  pale  and  worn  was  her  face ;  and  her  hands,  that  lay  list- 
lessly on  the  coverlet,  with  the  pretty  lace  cuffs  going  back 
from  the  wrists,  were  spectral  haiids,  so  thin  and  white  were 
they. 

"Master  Quiney,"  said  the  old  dame,  coming  to  the  door, 
"  it  be  all  ready  now  below,  if  you  can  carry  the  wench  down. 
And  take  time — take  time  ;  there  be  no  hurry." 

"You  must  come  and  help  me,  good  grandmother,"  said 
he,  "to  get  her  well  into  my  arms." 

In  truth  he  was  trembling  with  very  nervousness  as  he  set 
about  this  task.  Should  some  mischance  occur  ? — some  stum- 
ble ? — and  then  he  found  himself  all  too  strong  and  uncouth 
and  clumsy,  with  her  so  frail  and  delicate  and  weak.  But  her 
grandmother  lifted  the  girl's  hand  to  his  shoulder — or  rather 
to  his  neck — and  bade  her  hold  on  so,  as  well  as  she  might ; 
and  then  he  got  his  arms  better  round  her ;  and  with  slow  and 
careful  steps  made  his  way  down  to  the  room  below.  There 
the  bed  was  near  the  window,  and  when  he  had  gently  placed 
her  on  it,  and  propped  up  her  head  and  shoulders,  so  that  she 
w^s  almost  sitting,  the  first  thing  that  she  saw  before  her  was 
the  slung  box  of  flowers  and  leaves  outside  the  little  casement. 
She  turned  to  him,  and  smiled,  and  looked  her  thanks  with 
grateful  eyes :  he  sought  for  no  more  than  that. 

Of  course  they  were  all  greatly  pleased  at  this  new  state  of 
affairs :  it  seemed  a  step  on  the  forward  way,  a  hopeful  thing. 
Moreover,  there  was  a  brighter  animation  in  the  girl's  look — 
whether  that  was  owing  to  the  excitement  of  the  change  or  the 
pleasure  at  seeing  the  face  of  an  old  friend.  And  as  the  others 
seemed  busy  among  themselves,  suggesting  small  arrangements 


"western  wind,  when  will  you  blow  ?"  389 

and  the  like,  Quiney  judged  it  was  time  for  him  to  go:  his 
services  were  no  longer  needed. 

He  went  forward  to  her. 

"Judith," said  he,  "I  will  bid  you  good-day  now.  If  you 
but  knew  how  glad  I  am  to  have  seen  you — ay,  and  to  find 
you  going  on  so  well !  I  will  take  away  a  lighter  heart  with 
me." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  hesitatuig  and  timid ;  and  then  she 
gathered  courage. 

"But  why  must  you  go  ?"  said  she — with  some  touch  of  col- 
or in  the  pale  face. 

He  glanced  at  the  others. 

"Perchance  they  may  not  wish  me  to  stay;  they  may  fear 
your  being  tired  with  talking." 

"But  if  I  wish  you  to  stay— for  a  little  while  ?"  she  said, 
gently.      "If  your  business  call  you  not  ?" 

"My  business!"  he  said.  "My  business  must  shift  for  it- 
self on  such  a  day  as  this.  Think  you  'tis  nothing  for  mo  to 
speak  with  you  again,  Judith,  after  so  long  a  time  ?" 

"  And  my  chariot,"  she  said,  brightly:  "  may  not  I  see  my 
chariot  ?" 

"Why,  truly!"  he  cried.  "Willie  Hart  is  in  charge  of  it 
without.  We  will  bring  it  along  the  passage,  and  you  will 
see  it  at  the  door  :  and  you  must  not  laugh,  dear  Judith — 'tis 
a  rude-made  thing,  I  know,  but  serviceable;  you  shall  have 
comfort  from  it,  I  warrant  you." 

They  wheeled  it  along  the  passage,  but  could  not  get  it  with- 
in the  apartment;  however,  through  the  open  door  she  could 
see  very  easily  the  meaning  and  construction  of  it.  And  when 
she  observed  with  what  care  and  pretty  taste  it  had  been 
adorned  for  her,  even  to  the  putting  ribbons  at  the  front  cor- 
ners of  the  little  canopy  (but  this  was  not  the  work  of  men's 
fingers;  it  was  Prudence  who  had  contributed  these),  she  was 
not  in  the  least  inclined  to  laugh  at  the  efforts  of  these  good 
friends  to  be  of  use  to  her  and  to  gratify  her.  She  beckoned 
him  to  come  to  her. 

"'Tis  but  a  patchwork  thing  to  look  at,"  said  he,  rather 
shamefacedly,  "but  I  hope  you  will  find  it  right  comfortable 
when  you  use  it.     I  hope  soon  to  hear  of  you  trying  it,  Judith." 

"Give  me  your  hand,"  said  she. 


390  JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

She  took  his  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"I  can  not  speak  my  thanks  to  you,"  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  ' '  for  not  only  this,  but  for  all  that  you  have  done  for 
me." 

There  were  tears  in  her  eyes ;  and  he  was  so  bewildered,  and 
his  heart  so  wildly  aflame,  that  he  could  only  touch  her  shoul- 
der and  say : 

"Be  still  now,  Judith.  Be  still  and  quiet;  and  perchance 
they  may  let  me  remain  with  you  a  little  space  further." 

Well,  it  was  a  long  and  a  weary  waiting.  She  seemed  too 
content  with  her  feeble  state;  there  were  so  many  who  wei-e 
kind  to  her;  and  her  father  sending  her  messages  from  Lon- 
don; and  Quiney  coming  every  morning  to  put  some  little 
things — branches  of  evergreens,  or  the  like,  when  flowers  were 
no  longer  to  be  had^n  the  little  basket  outside  the  window. 
He  could  reach  to  that  easily ;  and  when  she  happened  to  hear 
his  footsteps  coming  near,  even  when  she  could  not  see  him, 
she  would  tap  with  her  white  fingers  on  the  window-panes — 
that  was  her  thanks  to  him,  and  morning  gi'eeting. 

It  was  a  bitter  winter ;  and  ever  they  were  looking  forward 
to  the  milder  weather,  to  see  when  they  might  risk  taking  her 
out-of-doors,  swathed  up  in  her  chariot,  as  she  called  it;  but 
the  weeks  and  weeks  went  by,  hard  and  obdurate,  and  at  last 
they  found  themselves  in  the  new  year.  But  she  could  get 
about  the  house  a  little  now,  in  a  quiet  way;  and  so  it  was 
that,  one  morning,  she  and  Quiney  were  together  standing  at 
the  front  window,  looking  abroad  over  the  wide  white  land- 
scape. Snow  lay  everywhere,  thick  and  silent;  the  bushes 
were  heavy  with  it;  and  far  beyond  those  ghostly  meadows — 
though  they  could  not  see  it — they  knew  that  the  Avon  was 
fixed  and  hard  in  its  winter  sleep,  under  the  hanging  banks  of 
the  Weir  Brake. 

"  '  Western  wind,  when  will  you  blow  ?'"  she  said,  and  yet 
not  sadly,  for  there  was  a  placid  look  in  her  eyes:  she  was 
rather  complaining,  with  a  touch  of  the  petulance  of  the  Judith 
of  old. 

The  arm  of  her  lover  was  resting  lightly  on  her  shoulder — she 
was  strong  enough  to  bear  that  now,  and  did  not  resent  tho 
burden.     And  she  had  got  her  soft  sunny-brown  curls  again, 


"western  wind,  when  will  you  blow?"  391 

though  still  they  were  rather  short ;  and  her  face  had  got  back 
something  of  its  beautiful  curves ;  and  her  eyes,  if  they  were 
not  so  cruelly  audacious  as  of  old,  were  yet  clear-shining  and 
gentle,  and  with  abundance  of  kind  messages  for  all  the  world, 
but  with  tenderer  looks  for  only  one. 

"'Westei-n  wind,'"  she  repeated,  with  that  not  ovei'sad 
complaint  of  injury,  "  'when  will  you  blow— when  will  you 
blow  ?' " 

"All  in  good  time,  sweetheart,  all  in  good  time,"  said  he; 
and  his  hand  lay  kindly  on  her  shoulder,  as  if  she  were  one  to 
whom  some  measure  of  gentle  tending  and  cheering  words 
were  somehow  due.  "  And  guess  you  now  what  they  mean  to 
do  for  you  when  the  milder  weather  comes  ? — I  mean  the  lads 
at  the  school.  Why,  then,  'tis  a  secret  league  and  compact 
— I  doubt  not  that  your  cousin  Willie  may  have  been  at  the 
suggesting  of  it,  but  'twas  some  of  the  bigger  lads  who  came  to 
me.  And  'tis  all  arranged  now,  and  all  for  the  sake  of  you, 
dear  heart.  For  when  the  milder  weather  comes,  and  the  year 
begins  to  wake  again,  why,  they  are  all  of  them  to  keep  a  sharp 
and  an  eager  eye  here  and  there — in  the  lanes  or  in  the  woods — 
for  the  early  peeping  up  of  the  primroses.  And  then  'tis  to 
be  a  grand  whole  holiday  that  I  am  to  get  for  them,  as  it  ap- 
pears; and  all  the  school  is  to  go  forth  to  seax'ch  the  hedge- 
rows and  the  woods  and  the  banks— all  the  country-side  is 
to  be  searched  and  searched — and  for  w'hat,  think  you  ? — why, 
to  bring  you  a  spacious  basketful  of  the  very  first  primroses  of 
the  spring !  See  you,  now,  what  it  is  to  be  the  general  favorite ! 
— nay,  I  swear  to  you,  dear  Judith,  you  are  the  sweetheart  of 
all  of  them ;  and  what  a  shame  it  is  that  I  must  take  you  away 
from  them  all!" 


the  end. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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